


Desperate OSIs

by deliriumbubbles



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-02 09:21:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17261654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliriumbubbles/pseuds/deliriumbubbles
Summary: On an undercover OP gone awry, Doc Venture ends up playing house with his former bodyguard turned full time agent Brock Samson. Masquerading as a happily married couple, with two rambunctious teenage boys, the deception is both too easy, and a little too close to the truth.Set in late Season Five.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Gayalbertwesker for potentscience’s Secret Santa 2018.

Brock glared at Rusty as the man stretched his back and grumbled about the long drive. Things were not going according to plan. The Doc wasn’t even supposed to be here, for starters. OSI had planned this OP very carefully, point by point, and it hadn’t included having a spare super-scientist who hadn’t _really_ been a part of the game since his children were knee-high.

 

But Gathers had wanted the Venture boys along as part of their cover. Most of the new recruits were built like bricks, while the boys could still pass for about sixteen, if they had to. Especially together.

 

God, the _fuss_ the Doc had kicked up when they’d suggested taking the boys along for the mission. It had been a flat out no. Brock had been expecting that; Gathers hadn’t. He ought to have, though. Brock had told Gathers that using the boys as a prop for a mission, with the clone lab shut down, would be a real hard sell.

 

Doc had said absolutely _not_ and instructed them to hire some child actors. In the end, Brock had taken the Doc aside, exercised authority that he did _not_ have, and invited the Doc along.

 

Gathers was pretty pissed about the whole situation. Everyone was already kind of touchy about doing another undercover OP like this. Since transitioning back from New SPHINX to New OSI, there had been tension between the current agents and those who had defected to join SPHINX. They especially had their backs up about how the SPHINX team got a lot of favoritism from the new general. But Brock had received the brunt of that tension. Shore Leave and some others, they’d been pushed out of OSI under the old guard. Brock had instigated a friggin’ battle royale on the Venture Compound’s lawn.

 

Oops.

 

Thus, standing outside the car, waiting for their undercover team to return from behind some bushes, Brock listened to the familiar music of Thaddeus S. Venture grousing about the long ride and jackassery that seemed to follow them everywhere. He wasn’t even _wrong_ this time. The drive had been longer than it ought to have been. The scientist who had originally been slated for the mission had manage to get food poisoning before setting out for the trip, shat himself, and caused them to have to stop five times along the way.

 

At least the boys had been well behaved. Brock had never seen them so quiet. Granted, looking at them, he wasn’t sure what to make of the difference. It had been too long since Brock had spent time with them, and now Hank was bobbing his head to imaginary music, and Dean’s nose was buried in a book. The latter wasn’t new, of course, but black hair visible above the book definitely was.

 

“You think Dr. Ferrous is ever gonna stop pukin’?” Brock lit a cigarette and leaned against the car.

 

“Who says he’s _puking_?” Rusty said.

 

Brock pinched his eyes closed. “We lucked out that they decided two cars would be less conspicuous than a huge van.”

 

“Aren’t you people professionals? Who has ever looked at a big black van and though, yeah, _that’s_ a stable nuclear family about to move in.”

 

“Some of us are a little rusty, I guess. I mean—“

 

“Heh.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

Amber Gold strolled up behind them. She was dressed in a pair of jeans that would be defined as “mom” on anyone else, and a scoop-necked shirt. It was odd to see her without her wig, but Brock had to admit, he didn’t get why anyone would care what shade of blond she happened to be. She’d look too good for Dr. Ferrous even if she was bald.

 

“How’s it comin’ over here, boys?” she said.

 

“Well, I’m not the one who cooks his chicken medium-rare,” Rusty said. “How’s Dr. Diarrhea?”

 

Amber grimaced and shook her head. “You know they say ‘til death do you part, but I don’t feel compelled to hold his hair or his hand.”

 

Brock laughed. “Ya pulled the short straw on this one, Gold.”

 

“Short straw, nothin’. We don’t have any other women up in the top brass qualified to run an OP like this.” Amber sighed. “Can we just send this fool home? You outrank me, Brock. You could do it. We don’t need _two_ scientists, do we? I don’t know why the General didn’t just tap Dr. Venture to begin with.”

 

Brock cleared his throat.

 

“You’d think he’d at least ask, after setting up shop on my property without so much as a ‘if you don’t mind,’” Rusty said.

 

Amber laughed deep in her throat. “Sounds like you two boys just don’t get along.”

 

“That would only be a problem if he were actually _on_ this mission.”

 

“You do not understand the kind of pissing contests these fellas get into.” Amber hopped onto the hood of the car. “So? Ditching the spare, or what?”

 

“Can’t.” Brock didn’t even bother to look at the Doc. He was undoubtedly glaring at him. “Dr. Ruin has been cooking up something complex, and it’s just better if we try to cover our bases. Ferrous might prove useful.”

 

“Fine. Can we switch cars, though?” Amber pleaded.

 

“No one drives my car,” Brock reminded her.

 

“C’moooon,” Amber wheedled.

 

“Be a gentleman, Brock. I can drive,” Doc said.

 

“ _You_ are absolutely not driving,” Brock said.

 

* * *

 

Three hours and two more stops later, Brock was pulling up the U-Haul to the front gate of Afton’s Preserve at the Woodlands. Dr. Ferrous was asleep in the passenger seat, and Brock prodded him. He looked drained of his blood, and he stank. It had been a hard sell to begin with that Amber would have married this guy or that anyone at all would want to procreate with him.

 

“Wake up. You gotta meet the property manager with Amber,” Brock ordered. When Ferrous failed to snap to attention, Brock hopped out of the side and went around to open the door. Ferrous fell out.

 

The man looked about as you’d expect an OSI scientist to look. Some of them were fit, but most spent their days locked up in research labs taking on the pallor of someone working around experimental machines and substances. Thus, on the ground rolled a pasty-faced, doughy scientist with thick, circular glasses. Brock prodded him with his toe.

 

“Get up.”

 

“Uhhh…”

 

Brock sighed. “How about Amber and I go get the keys, huh?”

 

It would do. He and Amber had run missions together before, and the Doc and the boys were old hands at all this bullshit. They could keep Dr. Ferrous in the basement or something. Brock reached over him to grab the paperwork from the glove compartment, then returned to the car, where Amber was waiting and talking with the Doc. She rolled down the window and hung her head out.

 

“What’s the plan, darlin’?”

 

“Can you take that idiot to the hospital or something? I’ll head in, get the keys, and then start unloading.”

 

“Roger.”

 

Brock headed for the office. It was a pisser, having to run everything by a property manager, even though each house belonged the families living in them. No one had lived in a gated community when Brock had been growing up. The office was nice, though. Everything was clean. Rich, dark woods. The place was ice cold, too. There was a young woman sitting at a desk talking on a phone with someone, so he gave her a wave and settled in to wait.

 

A moment later, Hank darted in, dancing around like he was about to wet himself.  The Doc followed shortly afterward.

 

“They’ve got to have one in here somewhere,” Rusty said, looking around.

 

Brock rushed to his side and said quietly, but forcefully, “Doc, ya can’t be in here.”

 

“It’s here or in the bushes. I _told_ him to go on the last stop,” Rusty said. “Lord knows we made enough of them.”

 

“Excuse me, my fine lady,” Hank said, wiggling around in front of the girl at the desk. “Could I please, please, _please_ use your bathroom?”

 

She smiled widely, tucked the phone receiver between her ear and shoulder, and pointed down the hall. Hank disappeared immediately, and the office was quiet again.

 

“I thought you’d wait in the car,” Brock said.

 

“Amber took the car. To the hospital.”

 

“Yeah, but…” Brock put his hands on his hips and shook his head.

 

Rusty patted his arm. “This is gonna be a good one. I can tell.”

 

“Geezus, we haven’t even _moved in_ yet.”

 

“It’ll smooth out. It’s always the missions that start slow and steady that get the most jacked up. Remember… Oh. You weren’t there for that one.” Rusty frowned.

 

Frankly, Brock didn’t want to hear about any of the adventures Rusty and the boys had gone on with Sergeant Hatred. He was glad that old man was stuck back at the compound by himself. “How about the one in Belgravia? Everything went smooth for three days, then all hell broke loose.”

 

“I hardly believed that was a country at first. Such a tiny place. It was like one of those theme park towns.”

 

“Except with more mimes. How do you get that many street performers together in such a condensed area?”

 

Rusty chuckled. “What would you do without street dancers, I ask you?”

 

“Probably drink less absinthe. That’s my guess.”

 

Hank came out from the hall and stretched his arms in front of himself. “Success!”

 

“Fabulous.” Rusty beckoned Hank back over. “C’mon. Let’s go back to the truck.”

 

Hank looked up at Brock. “Why do I have to? _I’m_ supposed to be here.”

 

“Just go with your dad, huh? Make my day easier for just a second,” Brock said.

 

Hank shrugged and headed for the door. Right about that time, a tall man with a shaved head came strolling in wearing khaki shorts and a tacky tropical shirt.

 

“Hey! There you are!” The man came up to Brock to shake his hand and seemed to boggle as he looked up at him. He was shorter than Brock and probably didn’t experience that often. “You must be Sam and Terry Smith. And this is one of your sons? Are you Sam?”

 

“Waiiit.” Brock held his hand up, but then realized he’s just referred to the Doc as Hank’s dad _right in front of_ the people they were going to be running this mission around for the next few months. Nice.

 

“ _He’s_ Terry,” Rusty said, almost too cheerfully. “I’m Sam. And this one is Henry.” He jerked his thumb toward Hank and then offered the man his hand. “Are you the property manager? Arn Kowalski?”

 

“That would be me. We talked on the phone, Mr. Smith.”

 

Rusty waved his hand dismissively. “Just call me Sam. That’s gonna get a little too confusing between the two of us.”

 

“Ah, then who did… I…?” Arn pointed between Brock and Rusty.

 

Actually, Mr. Kowalski had talked to Dr. Ferrous, but Ferrous’s voice was actually deeper than Rusty’s.

 

“That’s me. Terry.” Brock sighed. Why did he have to be _Terry_? This fuckin’ case. “Good to meet you, Mr. Kowalski. We’ve had uh, kind of a rough day.”

 

“I bet. Long drive?”

 

“Oh, the _longest_ ,” Rusty said.

 

“We had to stop like ten times,” Hank said.

 

“Oh?” Arn said.

 

Brock shot a glance back at him. They didn’t need to be offering a lot of extra information about who had been traveling with them.

 

“The boys don’t do well on long car rides. Henry had a little tummy trouble, didn’t you, buddy?” Rusty lied easily.

 

Hank’s cheeks got a bit redder. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t’ve packed gross egg salad fart sandwiches.”

 

“Fine. I’ll make B- Terry do the cooking next time,” Rusty replied.

 

Hank cringed. “Please, don’t.”

 

Rusty touched Hank’s shoulder. “Go check on your brother, hm? Make sure he hasn’t dropped off the edge of the Earth or anything?”

 

Hank clicked his tongue and went outside.

 

“To be honest, for some reason, I thought the two of you were…” Arn shook his head. “Well, let me get your introduction packet for the community and the gate code and stickers for your windshield, and you can get settled in with your boys, hm?”

 

“Sounds good,” Brock said.

 

The girl at the desk put the phone down and came up to them. “Hi! I’m Kate. Sorry for not greeting you when you came in.” To Mr. Kowalski, she said, “Mrs. Donovan asked that we bring an exterminator around. Those weird beetles are back.”

 

“Beetles?” Rusty asked, crossing his arms.

 

“She has a large garden around Everest Lane. You can’t miss it. Anyway, those beetles get in and try to eat her flowers,” Mr. Kowalski explained. “I’ll call the guy in a bit. Let’s get the Smiths squared away first.”

 

“Your boy seems really sweet.” Kate walked over to her desk and spread out a bunch of papers with stickers pointing to each place for a signature.

 

“When he wants to be,” Rusty said.

 

“Isn’t that the way with teenagers?” Mr. Kowalski stepped behind the second desk and started looking through it.

 

“I didn’t _think_ so. Then the other one dyed his hair black and started living in the attic with all the lights out.”

 

Kate covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

 

“I’m hoping when he hits his quota reading poetry, he’ll let my sweet child return,” Rusty leaned over the desk, looking at the papers.

 

“Aw. Yeah, my brother’s going through the same thing with his kid.”

 

“It’s like they’re trying to one up each other on the sass. I’m always torn between being annoyed at the back-talk and a little proud at how _funny_ they can be.”

 

Kate laughed and nodded.

 

This could actually work, Brock mused. He’d gone undercover in a “relationship” before. Never with anyone he’d known so long, though.

 

“Siddown, babe.” Brock pulled a chair over for Rusty. “Go easy on your back after that car ride.”

 

“Oh.” Rusty looked so surprised that Brock hoped they thought Rusty was scattered, not that Brock was usually thoughtless. “Thanks.”

 

“We’ll work that out later. I picked up some of those Tiger Balm patches.”

 

“Great. Then we’ll both stink.”

 

“Look, that U-Haul is nasty.”

 

“I was talking about all the cigarettes you smoked on the way, but you keep blaming the car.” Rusty pulled the papers closer and started skimming over all the papers. “Are there other kids around here? Teenagers? The boys are sixteen.”

 

The Doc wasn’t terrible at this. Granted, he didn’t have much of a “character” to play. He was playing a dad; he _was_ a dad. Why hadn’t that part occurred to Brock when Gathers had been grilling him about inviting Rusty? Ferrous wasn’t an actor or a parent. This could’ve been a disaster.

 

Maybe Rusty was right. Maybe starting with problems would lead to a more successful mission.

 

* * *

 

“I’m a little shocked you aren’t more put out by this turn of events.”

 

Rusty was leaning over the bed in a kind of awkward twist as he tried to wrangle a fitted sheet over the bed. Brock had been on the line with Gathers for the last twenty minutes. Since Amber hadn’t yet made it back, he needed to be sure that they hadn’t been compromised. On the contrary, things seemed to be progressing just fine. The techies had slipped on into Afton Preserve’s computers to update their files on the new “couple.” Amber had reported to Gathers after checking Ferrous into the hospital.

 

Brock would like to complain about the situation. He’d never appreciated the assumptions that he and the Doc were a couple, and they came more frequently than was comfortable. But for once, it seemed to be working in their favor.

 

“Lotta problems with this set up. You’re not one of our officers, you don’t know the protocol… but I don’t think you’d do any worse than Ferrous would. Always a risk, bringing the science and tech guys into the field.” Brock leaned over and grabbed the end of the sheet. He pulled it into place easily. “Besides, we all _clearly_ know each other. Makes it an easier sell. There’s a lot less we gotta fake.”

 

“I don’t think you’ve ever called me ‘babe’ before,” Rusty noted dryly.

 

“Can’t let you show me up on the spy stuff.” Brock smoothed his hands over the sheets. “It’s what I would’ve called Amber. Simple. Affectionate without being forced. Gender neutral.”

 

Rusty smirked. “I bet Shore Leave is pissed he didn’t get this assignment now.”

 

“I’d take that bet.”

 

“Now scoot. I have to put the bedspread on.” Rusty tossed the blanket onto the bed, and half of its bulk landed on Brock.

 

“What, are you _nesting_?”

 

“You can’t blame me for wanting to sleep in a bed tonight after that _ride_. It’s weird that we didn’t just fly in.”

 

“No normal family flies in on an experimental jet. We needed the paper trail from the U-Haul, anyway.”

 

“Do you really expect a guy named _Ruin_ to figure out that we cheated and only drove a few miles?”

 

Brock patted Rusty’s shoulder on his way out. “You never know. That’s why we cover our bases.” He paused. “It’s good to be working with you again, though. Even if it was a bit unexpected.”

 

“Well, glad I had the time. I’ve been so busy,” Rusty said sarcastically.

 

Brock suppressed a chuckle and went out to check on the boys. They’d helped him bring in the furniture (two boys on one end of the sofa, Brock on the other), and afterward, set up in their room. When Hank had found out they would be sharing a bunkbed, he had bounced around excitedly until Brock had to order him to grab the other end of the dresser they were carrying before Dean broke in half.

 

Inside the room, Dean was on the floor with his sleeves rolled up as he bent over the frame, tightening a bolt determinedly.

 

“No, I get the top! I’m older, so I get to decide,” Hank argued.

 

“I don’t want to be under you.”

 

“I don’t want to be under you either. You’re the one who has nightmares all the time.”

 

“It’s not like I sleepwalk or scream. I don’t see how that would bother you.”

 

“You flop around in your sleep. I’ll hear everything.”

 

“If you get the top bunk, you’re putting waterproof sheets on your bed and not drinking anything after 8:00pm.”

 

“Oh, come on! That was _one_ time! Hatred keeps saying that, but every other time, it was, um, you know.”

 

Dean looked up with his brow furrowed. “What? Oh, _gross_!”

 

“Like you don’t ever jizz in the bed. I can’t help it.”

 

“Just stop talking!” Dean pleaded. “You can have the stupid top bunk.”

 

Brock fought a smile as he watched them. Poking his head inside, he asked, “You need any help with that? I was gonna set it up for you.”

 

“No, I got it. The frame is a simple design. I can make Hank hold up the parts I need to,” Dean said, his attention firmly back on his task.

 

“Your dad and I were thinking of ordering pizza—“

 

All at once, two sets of gray-blue eyes were fixed on him. Probably because they never got to order pizza at home, ever. Because it was a compound in the mountains, and you couldn’t pay a delivery guy to come that far.

 

“Pepperoni and sausage!” Hank yelled.

 

“Ew, no!” Dean glared at him. “You know I don’t eat anything that has a face!”

 

“That doesn’t mean the rest of us have to suffer.” Hank crossed his arms. “Just pick it off.”

 

“Pigs are smarter than some toddlers,” Dean said. “It’s like eating a dog. Is that what you want? Dog pizza?”

 

“A delicious, _ugly_ dog,” Hank shot back, unfazed.

 

“Hey, hey!” Brock stepped into the room. “I didn’t come in here to start a fight. We can order two. One with pepperoni and sausage, and… what do you think, Dean? Olives and spinach?”

 

“Wuss,” Hank muttered.

 

“I’ll be sharing that with him, Hank,” Brock pointed out.

 

Dean smirked at his brother then looked up at Brock. “That sounds good to me.”

 

“Geez, you two. Do you fight more than you used to, or what?”

 

“We don’t,” Hank said.

 

“We just have more space at the compound, I think,” Dean added.

 

“When did you even become a vegetarian?” Brock said. “You’d think I’d’ve noticed that.”

 

“Um, I was thinking about it for a while. I started doing it after the prom. You weren’t living with us, then.”

 

Brock nodded slowly. “Well, pizza is easy, but let’s make sure your dad includes some protein for you at meals, hm?”

 

“Does waving bacon in my face count?”

 

Brock held back a laugh. Of course, Rusty’s solution would be for Dean to cave on the vegetarian thing. Well, the kid might eventually. But he looked pale and skinny right now, so Brock’s strategy would just be to feed him. And preferably not just cheese.

 

“Alright, I’ll order. You two try to keep from tearing the house apart. We’ve got a cover to maintain.”

 

Hank gave him a salute, and Dean frowned slightly and went back to work on the bed.

 

God, they had changed. In large, broad strokes, the boys had gone and changed. Brock hadn’t been away for that long, had he?   

 

* * *

 

“Pizza’s here!” Hank yelled when the doorbell rang.

 

Brock looked up as Hank bolted past him. Dean followed more slowly, rubbing his fingers.

 

“You got that bed put together?” Brock asked.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I’ll check it after dinner.”

 

Dean frowned a little, but then looked around. “Where’s the kitchen again? I’ll unpack the plates.”

 

“If you can find ‘em. I dunno who did the packing at OSI.”

 

“I mean, they’re probably in the box labeled ‘kitchen stuff.’” Dean shrugged. “So I’ll either come out with plates or a roll of paper towels.”

 

Brock headed for the door and grinned when he saw Shore Leave, wearing a shoulder-length curly wig and standing with one hand on his hip and the other holding a couple of pizzas.

 

“I am _so_ mad at you,” he said.

 

“C’mon in.” Brock stepped up to the door and glanced outside. Shore Leave had brought their car back, thankfully, along with their dinner.

 

“You punks fake being a _gay couple_ , and I’m not even part of the cover story? _Rude_!”

 

“It wasn’t planned this way,” Brock objected, taking the pizzas and leading the way into the house. “Hank, go help your brother. It was supposed to be Ferrous and Amber.”

 

“Well, when Ferrous was out, you could’ve at least called _me_. I don’t buy for a second Amber would stoop to marrying your cranky old rust bucket.”

 

“You think they would’ve believed you and the Doc as a couple more?”

 

“Not me and _him_ , me and YOU. We’re both built enough that people assume all this hyper-masculinity is a cover for something.” Shore Leave pulled off his wig. “Rusty Venture couldn’t snag _me_ in his wildest dreams.”

 

Brock dropped the pizza on an empty space on the dining table. “He’s no worse than that boyfriend of yours.”

 

“Oh, shut it. Al is sweet. And he’s really _giving_ , if you know what I mean.”

 

“He has a huge bald spot.”

 

“He’s from a monastic order. He shaves it.”

 

“And he’s paunchy.”

 

“Oh, lay off my man. You’re just jealous.”

 

Brock rolled his eyes. “Of _what_? Masturbating to a video chat?”

 

“Look, Brockthario. You’ll either get tired of nailing everything that moves someday, or you won’t. Al make me laugh. There’s a lotta crap in my life, and he gets it.” Shore Leave shrugged. “Venture is a humorless gremlin man.”

 

Dean came in from behind them and set some plates and a roll of paper towels on the table. “I’m gonna go get Pop.”

 

Shore Leave raised his brows.

 

“He’s not wrong,” Hank said, setting down a 2-liter of soda and a few cups.

 

“No. He just forgot the part where Pop’s also a control freak,” Dean said as he left the room.

 

Shore Leave pressed a hand to his chest. “Oh, the _shade_ of it all. They’re _definitely_ teenagers now.”

 

“We’ve been teenagers as long as you’ve known us.” Hank picked up a plate. “Can we eat in the living room? Everything’s piled up and messy in here.”

 

Brock smiled slightly. “Yeah, sure.”

 

“Picnic!” Hank grabbed a few slices and bounded out of the room.

 

Shore Leave leaned back against the wall. “Anyway, I’m here to run the downstairs surveillance. If you can get into the house to set a few bugs, it would help. It’ll give you some time away from them, anyway.”

 

“Let’s just get this done as quickly as possible. I don’t think the boys are going to enjoy being stuck here for too long. This place looks almost as boring as Malice.”

 

“Oh yeah? I thought you’d be the one champing at the bit. Didn’t you have enough of the fake domesticity gig before you left the Ventures?”

 

Casting a glance toward the door, Brock shrugged. “It was less the domesticity, and more the lawn full of enemies and the constant threat that the boys might die. Didn’t hurt that Gathers played me like a fiddle and I fucked up bad enough that we lost _all_ of the back-up clones.” He paused. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m more one for field work… But I didn’t hate it. Doc gave me a lot of freedom. More than he’d give anyone else in that position. I doubt he even asked Hatred what he thought of them all running off with OSI on a mission without him.”

 

“Well, then, good luck, my love. You’re in it for the long haul. At least until we figure out what Ruin’s up to.” Shore Leave picked up a plate.

 

* * *

 

It helped that the master bedroom held a king size. Or Brock hoped it would help, because when Brock got out of the shower, Rusty (who had taken a hot bath earlier that evening) was already reclining against several pillows on one side of the bed, and theoretically, as a married couple, Brock ought to take the other side.

 

Rusty frowned as he looked over some papers in a folder, occasionally shaking his head.

 

Brock tucked his towel more tightly around his waist and went over to the box with his clothes. Normally, he didn’t bother to wear anything in his sleep… But Rusty normally only wore his underwear, and he’d chosen to wear a simple white shirt as well.

 

This had been a trying day.

 

“Whatcha got there?” Brock asked, after pulling on a pair of briefs and a shirt.

 

“Shore Leave had a very dramatic folder including an update on Dr. Ruin’s suspected activities.” Rusty adjusted his glasses and took a drink of the water by his nightstand. “You don’t have proof yet that he’s done anything.”

 

“Yeah, the problem with a guy like him is that you don’t know for sure that he’s gonna do anything until he’s taken out a hundred miles of real estate.”

 

“I’d prefer he not take them while we’re here.” Rusty reached over to one of the papers he’d set aside on the bedspread. “This might’ve worked better if I came as myself. Super scientists like to one-up each other. He’d probably take me right to his doomsday device so he could brag.”

 

“Just stay back, and let us gather the intel.” Brock looked at him sternly.

 

Rusty held his hands up. “I’ll act like we’re on vacation.”

 

“You’re meant to be setting up the house. I’ll go over and talk to him.”

 

“Oh, I’m a housewife then, am I, Terry?”

 

“Knock it off, Sam.”

 

Rusty chuckled. He gathered the papers back into the folder and arched his back. “I wish you hadn’t been doing your character when you talked about those Tiger Balm patches.”

 

“Right.”

 

Brock got back up and went over to one of the cases that Shore Leave had brought. He dug through it for a moment, then motioned for Rusty to turn around.

 

“Pull up your shirt,” he ordered.

 

“Easy there, Terry. The kids might hear.”

 

“If you don’t cut it out,” Brock warned. He didn’t finish, however. Instead, he opened up a large, sealed package. “C’mon. Just do it.”

 

“Oh, fine.” Rusty turned, lifted his shirt, and glanced behind him.

 

Brock knelt on the bed and carefully smoothed the patch over Rusty’s lower back, then began rubbing in circles.

 

“Oh, God!” Rusty cringed.

 

“Just give it a minute. It feels like fire at first, but it gets a lot better. Stay still.” Brock continued in broad circles. “We use these in the field for pulled or torn muscles. Should do for a sore back.”

 

“Oohhhh.” Rusty looked up at the ceiling and groaned.

 

Brock rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure if Rusty was malingering or just being incorrigibly suggestive. “You’ve suffered worse pain than a sore back.”

 

“Of course, I have. But there’s difference between torture and this nonsense. One has a purpose. The other is just the inevitable ruination of your body. Plus, it’s constant, and that’s annoying.”

 

Brock stilled his hand and looked at Rusty seriously. “Yeah, I know. This chest plate looks cool, but I can’t say I love the constant reminder of nearly dying.”

 

“Who does?” Rusty shifted away from him and lay back on the pillows again. “Are you sleeping in here?”  


“Why, you puttin’ me out on the couch?”

 

“Don’t get touchy,” Rusty teased. “I was just wondering how far this ruse is supposed to go. No mission I took when I was interning for OSI went this far with undercover work. At most, we were passing for members of some environmental agency.”

 

“I didn’t realize you did any field work with them.” Tentatively, Brock slipped under the covers. His side was closer to the door, probably by design. Rusty would know that Brock preferred to be closer to, and in clear view of, entrances and exits.

 

“Most of it was in the lab, but occasionally, they had us out collecting samples around certain scientists’ labs, checking on radiation leakage and the like. Clearly, OSI hasn’t kept up that kind of standard.”

 

Brock ignored the criticism. “Why’d they have you in an OSI lab before you went to college?”

 

“Because my father, in his infinite wisdom, thought college was a waste of time, and I’d do better to just start in a lab and work my way up.” Rusty put the papers on the nightstand and reached back to rub over the patch. “You know how he was. He was a firm adherent to the sink or swim school of learning.”

 

“I thought he was an adherent of home beducation.”

 

Rusty grinned. “That too.”

 

“Well, our standards in a recon/capture scenario are a little higher. As far as we’re all concerned, when we’re outside these walls, we’re an old married couple. If there’s a chance that someone _might_ see us, we’re an old married couple.” Brock folded his hands behind his head and leaned back. “So just get comfy, because we’re gonna be digging in until we know what Ruin’s up to.”

 

Rusty gave a nod, took his glasses off, and set them on the nightstand. “At least it’s not in the middle of the jungle.”

 

“I’d prefer the jungle to suburbia, but what can you do?”

 

Brock snuggled back into the pillows, keeping one arm behind his head and sighing. Rusty reached over to turn out the light on his side and turned on his side with his eyes closed. It wouldn’t be the first close sleeping situation they’d been in. It wouldn’t be the first less than conventional cover Brock had taken. Brock had spent the bulk of his adult life both as an agent of OSI and by this man’s side.

 

Nothing new here, Brock told himself as he turned off his own light, and continued to watch Rusty.


	2. Chapter 2

The humming from the kitchen, plus the smell of bacon, roused Brock from his sleep. For a moment, he chastised himself for sleeping for so long, but his alarm hadn’t yet gone off. It was still 5:53am.

 

Brock switched off the alarm, pulled on a robe, and then went out into the house to see what was going on. Something other than the smell had aroused him. Some sound, likely, that wasn’t quite right. He checked in on the boys (still sleeping) and put an eye in each of the extra rooms. Shore Leave would be up in the attic with the surveillance equipment. It occurred to Brock just as he reached the kitchen that there were fewer boxes packed than there had been that evening, and Rusty definitely hadn’t been in bed.

 

By process of elimination, Brock should’ve realized that the Doc had woken early (probably from a sweat-soaked nightmare), dressed (no speedsuits allowed in undercover work), and made himself busy in the house. It had been so long since he’d seen the man cooking, however, that the sight of him in front of a stove, with a plates of crispy bacon and waffles behind him, seemed like an early morning dream.

 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Brock took a seat on one of the stools next to the island where Rusty was piling up the food.

 

“Hardly at all. I don’t suppose your OSI medicine tends to give lurid dreams.” Rusty sounded tired, but not particularly put out, so he probably didn’t believe that was the cause.

 

“Not the patches.  Sometimes when I’m on an assignment that requires less vigilance, my dreams go crazy. The brain doesn’t know what to do with itself when given a rest. Don’t worry, you’ll be busy enough in a few days.” Brock reached for a piece of bacon. “This is probably too much for just three people.”

 

“Four,” Rusty corrected.

 

“Dean’s not gonna eat the bacon. Will he eat eggs?”

 

“Ugh. That.” Rusty looked at the bowl of eggs that he’d already whipped up. “He hasn’t turned his nose up at them yet. Technically they don’t have a face yet.”

 

“Hank have any new tendencies I should know about?”

 

“Not really. Same sass, same recklessness. He seems to be doing well enough with the music, and we let him bring his bass. He should be okay.” Rusty pried out another waffle and did a quick count of the plate before turning to Brock. “He was worse right after you left. It’s better now. I’m surprised Dean didn’t want to go dwell in the basement alone with his books, though.”

 

“Kids, they’ll surprise ya.” Brock shrugged. “Want me to go wake ‘em so they can get breakfast? They should be pretty stoked. Been a minute since you cooked for them like this.”

 

“Well, it isn’t like Helper’s going to do it,” Rusty said defensively. “Honestly, I got tired of unpacking, and I didn’t want them eating leftover pizza for breakfast.”

 

He went back to the stove and started pouring out eggs. “Shore Leave went out early and picked up groceries… You’ll have to tell me how he likes his eggs. Oh, and I was thinking: You need an excuse to go over to Ruin’s house. We let the boys finish the unpacking, and I do some baking. It’s domestic and neighborly, right? I’ve never had neighbors, but Orpheus acts like neighbors bring each other food.”

 

Brock grinned. “Breakfast and baking. We lucked out today.”

 

“Amber mentioned she’d be doing things like that when she and Ferrous were playing house. She called it ‘the façade of normality.’” Rusty shrugged as he tended to the eggs, making a pile of scrambled, like the boys preferred. “Technically, _you’re_ taking her place, but you’re a crap cook, so.”

 

“I always forget that you _can_ cook.”

 

“I would that prefer you do. It’s calming, sometimes, but I can’t really focus on that when I have a project due.”

 

“I remember you making mac ‘n cheese in the lab when the boys were little. With those little cut up hot dogs.”

 

Rusty tilted his head to the side. “Helper couldn’t cook and look after them at the same time. Or he couldn’t because I wasn’t able to attach more arms to him. It just got complicated, juggling all the things they needed.”

 

“Not criticizing,” Brock clarified. “They liked the mac ‘n cheese. It was pretty good.”

 

Rusty made a noise in his throat. “Why don’t you wake them up? They can set the table.”

 

“Or we could eat in the kitchen,” Brock suggested as he pushed himself up. “No need to be fancy.”

 

On the way to wake the boys, the doorbell rang. Brock detoured to answer it, checking the peephole first. A middle-aged woman. With a plate in hand. Rusty was right about neighbors and food.

 

“Mornin’,” Brock said when he opened the door. It was a challenge not sounding gruff or annoyed. He didn’t really want her to stick around, but they had to put up the appearance of a regular family.

 

“Oh, good morning! I noticed you all moving in yesterday, and I thought I’d come by with some of my award-winning banana bread!” The lady leaned in, as if sharing a secret that might shake national security to its core. “I add nutmeg!”

 

“Well, that sounds… great.” Brock took the plate and looked at it. Just looked like bread to him. “I’m Terry Smith. The boys are still sleeping, or I’d call for ‘em. It’s a bit early for them, and they had a late night.”  


“Oh, I bet! Did you move a long way? I’m Carol Anne DeLuca, by the way.”

 

“All the way from Ohio,” Brock said in the brightest tone he could muster.

 

“Oh, my. Well, that must be a change for all of you!” She shifted her weight, settling in to talk for as long as she could, no doubt. She was already inching around, trying to see inside the house. “I can smell breakfast a’cookin’! Your little woman starts her day early, doesn’t she?”

 

Brock suppressed a laugh. “Sometimes. Depends on what she gets up to the day before. Always working on one thing or another. Today is baking and setting up the house. Tomorrow, who knows.”

 

“She sounds like a crafter! Does she knit or crochet?”

 

There was some internal pain at the image of the Doc crocheting scarves for the boys. “No. None of that. Does like to work with his hands, though.”

 

Mrs. DeLuca missed the pronoun shift and barreled on. “I didn’t see her come in while you were moving in. Was she the one who drove up later last night?”

 

Nosy, Brock determined. Better nip that in the bud. “No, Sam was with us when we moved in. I headed out for a pizza later, that’s all. Hang on, you can meet each other.”

 

Hurriedly, Brock went to the kitchen and stuck the banana bread on the island. “You at a good stopping place? We’ve got a nosy neighbor.”

 

Rusty took a pan off the burner and brushed off the apron covering the sweater and slacks he’d put on, which did have a bit of flour on them. “This is why I’m glad we only have the one at the compound. Well, there’s Ben, but he never leaves his house, hardly.”

 

Brock raised a brow as Rusty smirked and took Brock’s hand. “How friendly is this neighbor?”

 

“She brought bread. Same as you planned.”  


“Mine’s better,” Rusty muttered.

 

Brock could see the wrinkle of confusion on Carol Anne’s face as Rusty approached. It stuck there through the introductions, and then fell away as her brows reached for her hairline when it finally dawned on her that Rusty was the “little woman” they’d been talking about.

 

Rusty shooed Brock off to go wake the boys, while he leaned on the doorframe and started asking Carol Anne a barrage of questions about the neighborhood and the schools nearby. His voice was pitched sharp and sardonic and in spite of the homey look of the apron, Carol Anne seemed quite taken aback. By the time Rusty returned, Brock was certain that Carol Anne would either come by daily with gossip, or avoid them entirely. He knew which one he preferred, but the former would serve their recon better.

 

Brock had plated up the food for the boys and poured some orange juice. He nudged Rusty to a stool and pushed a plate in front of him.

 

“After breakfast, I’ll bring some up to Shore Leave. This is better than he’d get normally in the mess. Amber would cook too, on the mission, but she’s not really good at it. Just does it because that’s what the cover demands.” Brock pointed at the boys with a fork. “You two help your dad get everything looking good here, and by the afternoon, we’ll be able to canvas the neighborhood and get some details.”

 

“Wait, who is we?” Rusty demanded.

 

“I mean me and the boys. Nothing’ll happen. We just need to get eyes around the area,” Brock said.

 

“You couldn’t have done that before hand? Posed as plumbers?” Rusty asked.

 

“I could dress up as a plumber!” Hank suggested around a mouth full of waffle.

 

“No,” Brock said at the same time as Rusty.

 

“Aw.”

 

Brock gave him a stern look. “And you two stick close to each other. I’m gonna give each of you a phone after breakfast that tracks your movements, and you can contact us back here just by pressing a button or even SAYING ‘help.’”

 

“How dangerous is this neighborhood?” Dean asked, frowning a little.

 

“We don’t anticipate any disturbances from anyone but our target. This is just to be safe.”

 

Dean’s frown didn’t lessen, but he nodded.

 

“Right. Just leave the bulk of the work to me, Shore Leave, and your dad. It should all be fine.”

 

“I can help, though,” Hank protested. “Kids can get in and out of places that adults can’t.”

 

“If that happens, Brock isn’t going to be far away.” Rusty eyed him closely. “Right, Brock?”

 

“Yeah. You can come with me this afternoon to check out our target’s house, hm?” Brock suggested.

 

Hank pumped his fist. Dean just scowled down at his eggs.

 

“Go Team Venture!” Hank said, holding his fingers up and looking at Dean expectantly.

 

“Get your best friend to do it.”

 

“I can’t. Dermott’s too old-looking to come.”

 

“Oh, yeah. About that. Um, Dean, we’re gonna have to shave off that…” Brock motioned to his upper lip.

 

“Really? Ugh. _Fine_.”

 

Brock didn’t know what to make of that. He looked to Rusty, who met his eye and shrugged as if to say, “I told you so.”

 

* * *

 

In the end, Brock parked Dean on the porch with a book and told him to tell them if he noticed anything strange. He thought, when he’d first given him the assignment, that Dean would probably just read in the shade and pretend the world around him didn’t exist. As Brock and Hank left with several plates of zucchini-walnut bread and coffee cake, he could see that Dean had slumped in the swing in such a way that you could hardly tell when his eyes flitted up and around. The only thing that really stuck out about him was the black shirt and black jeans. If Brock could get Dean back into normal clothes, they’d be in good shape.

 

He had submitted to shaving off his little teen-stache, though. So not all hope was lost.

 

“So what has this guy done?” Hank asked as they walked down the sidewalk. “Is he a flour-flusher? Swindlin’ some gullible eggs? Gropin’ unsuspecting dames? Peddlin’ gigglewater to minors?”

 

“I’d tell ya to stop talking shop on the sidewalk, Hank, but I have no idea what you just said.”

 

“I just need to know the score!”

 

“The score is what I said it was. Now talk baseball or something, or can it.”

 

Hank sulked for half a block, then started chatting about what his band had been up to, so he didn’t seem too put out. They dropped in on every neighbor on that row of the street (which thankfully didn’t include Carol Anne), bringing tidings of Rusty Venture’s not so famous baking. Brock had never gotten any of it, except for around Christmas, which sometimes involved baking _experiments_ , so he didn’t know what these people were getting into. Hank had snuck a piece of zucchini bread and not died, though, so that was a good sign.

 

When they reached the end of the block, Dr. Ruin’s house loomed. As much as a two floor Victorian could loom, in any case. The benign exterior made Brock all the more suspicious. Ruin had a garden of daisies on either side of cobblestone walkway leading up to his house and a large crocheted puppy-dog on the front.

 

What was with these people and crochet?

 

Brock scanned the premises carefully. He’d subtly questioned each of their neighbors about the goings-on in the community, and none had thought to mention this man. That meant he was doing a good job of keeping his profile low.

 

“C’mon. It’s show time.”

 

“I’m on it.” Hank balled his hands into fists and grinned so insanely that Brock stared at him for a minute until he’d put on a more normal expression.

 

“Theeeere we go.”

 

Brock let Hank ring the doorbell and waited, plates of neighborly goodies in hand as he waited for the infamous Dr. Ruin.

 

Of course, while OSI had a picture of the man from an old company ID, in person, Dr. Humphrey F. Ruin simply looked like your average scientist, neither super nor mad. His hairline was receding, his temples gray, and his face lined. His horn-rimmed glasses were thick, and he wore a sweater vest. He looked roughly ten years older than Rusty, in actuality, and his shoulders slumped forward in a similar way, like the world was weighing on him somehow.

 

He didn’t look like a man who had (allegedly) conducted experiments on an inner city neighborhood in the Midwest, or who had released bats infected with a mind-control virus into Houston, Texas. He looked, rather, like maybe an old professor who still graded papers with a good humor and asked his students every Monday what they’d gotten up to over the weekend. He looked a little like John Billingsley, only maybe a bit thinner.

 

“Hi!” Hank said cheerfully before Brock could speak. “I’m Henry Smith, and this is my dad Terrance. We just moved here with my little brother and other dad!”

 

“Oh, hello.” Ruin gave them a little nod and smiled. “It’s good to see new faces around here. Goodness, but you’re tall, Mr. Smith. I bet you hope to be tall like your dad one day, Henry.”

 

“Yep!” Hank grinned. “My other dad did some baking to say hi. It’s really good. I stole a couple of pieces while we were unpacking.”

 

“That looks interesting.” Ruin frowned at the plate.

 

“It’s zucchini bread. I swear you can’t taste the zucchini,” Brock said. “First time Sam made it for me, I thought it was coconut or somethin’, but it doesn’t taste coconutty.”

 

“A sneaky way to get the boys to eat vegetables, I imagine?” Ruin smiled.

 

“Maybe. I think he learned the recipe from his grandma, though.” Brock looked at the plate. “Sam says you should eat it warm with butter, but the boys gobble it up before you can get out a knife.”

 

Ruin chuckled. He seemed at ease, but he’d yet to invite them in or properly introduce himself. “Well, two growing boys. How old are you, Henry?”

 

“Me and my brother Don are both sixteen. We’re twins!”

 

“How fun.”

 

“Sorry, there, didn’t catch your name,” Brock said.

 

“That’s quite all right. I didn’t give it. You can call me Frank, though,” Ruin said.

 

“Like a hot dog?” Hank said.

 

Ruin nodded. “The very same.”

 

Brock hesitated to push. No last name. Hadn’t taken the plate yet. Wouldn’t open the door further.

 

“Y’know, I hear that this neighborhood has some pretty good schools,” Brock said.

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t know. I don’t have any children,” Ruin said.

 

“Um, do you mind if I use your bathroom?” Hank asked suddenly.

 

“I told you to go before we left,” Brock said with a slightly chiding tone.

 

“I didn’t have to go then. Please.” Hank put his hands together and looked at Ruin with wide eyes.

 

“Sure.” Ruin stepped back from the door. “It’s at the end of the main hallway on the right.

 

“Thank you thank you!” Hank said as he hurried down the hallway.

 

“That’s generous. Not everyone wants someone else’s kid in their home,” Brock said.

 

“He seems like a good enough boy.” Ruin accepted the plate and looked over the bread.

 

“I wasn’t much of a kid person myself, until the boys came along.”

 

“I suppose it couldn’t have been too much of a surprise, them coming along, with your partner also being a man,” Ruin said. “A step up on the straights, when it comes to family planning, in any case.”

 

“True,” Brock said, making a mental note to take back to Shore Leave. “But it’s still a big decision.”

 

He pointed to the browner slices with the crumble on top. “That’s coffee cake.”

 

“Ah, I do love a good piece of coffee cake.” Ruin nodded. “And I have my own grinder for specialty beans I have sent here. I’ll have to invite you and your husband over some time for coffee sometime. I’m in the middle of something, though, so it’ll have to be another time.”

 

“Oh, I understand. Not common these days, just dropping by. But Sam wanted me to break the ice with our neighbors.”

 

“He not much for breaking the ice?” Ruin asked.

 

“He’s better than I am,” Brock said honestly. “That man will talk to anyone, even if he doesn’t enjoy it. But he hurt his back during the move, and it’s better if he takes it easy for a day or two.”

 

“Hm. Yes, back pain is the worst.” Ruin rubbed his lower back sympathetically. “I get it sometimes myself, and I’d really rather hurt myself directly than deal with this nagging, ever-present nuisance.”

 

“You two might have something to talk about then.” Brock hoped Hank would return quickly. “He’s a science teacher. Taking up some classes at the local college next fall.”

 

“What field?” Ruin leaned forward in interest.

 

“Human genetics. But he’s going to be stuck teaching freshman biology for a while.”

 

“I’d rather pull a groin muscle. But such is life in academia. I was involved in university research for a time, believe it or not. The tenure system is ruthless. I wish you both luck.” Ruin paused. “What’s your field? Are you... in academia?”

 

“Nah. I teach high school.”

 

“I see.”

 

Brock knew Ruin was mentally filling in the rest, with Brock as some kind of coach, and thus what he taught exactly didn’t matter the slightest.

 

“Thanks again!” Hank said, appearing from behind Ruin.

 

“No problem,” Ruin said. “Good luck with your trek around the neighborhood. And watch out for Mrs. DeLuca. She’s further down the lane, number 2030.”

 

“She steal papers or somethin’?” Brock asked.

 

“No, she’s just gossipy and hard to end a conversation with. That woman could talk to a park bench.”

 

Brock couldn’t disagree with that. “We’ll keep an eye out.”

 

They made their way across the street, aiming to finish out their cover for the immediate area with the baked goods before looking around the rest of the neighborhood.

 

“You take care of business?” Brock asked quietly.

 

“One in the bedroom, one in the office, and one at the end of the hall overlooking the living room. No one else is in the house. Not on the ground floor anyway,” Hank said. “I didn’t see anything weird or sciencey, though.”

 

“Don’t worry about that. We’ve got a bit of tech stuck to the plate, and tonight, Shore Leave will be able to send it up or downstairs as need be.” Brock put his hand on Hank’s shoulder. “Ya did good, Hank. Kids _can_ get into places.”

 

* * *

 

Rusty paced around the house anxiously. Brock hadn’t been gone with Hank for long, but this had been their first trip in some time. And on the last one, Hank had jumped out of a plane, made himself sick eating coffee cherries, and dressed up as a bat attacking super-powered, lab-created rebels.

 

Rusty had seen to the setting up of the house with a burst of energy that he couldn’t track the source of, made breakfast and done the baking with a similar energy, and bothered Shore Leave about the details of Dr. Ruin’s activities until he’d been all but thrown out of the attic. There was really nothing left for him to do until they had more recon on Ruin. Apart from maybe planning dinner or setting up a chore wheel or organizing the bathroom toiletries, or something else equally as dull and domestic.

 

He returned to the office where he’d left the data Shore Leave had given him on Ruin’s suspected activities and made a list of ways _he_ might go about accomplishing those activities, if he’d been so determined to make them happen. Then, he made a list of specialties that Ruin would need to have to have in order to make those things happen and looked through Ruin’s college transcripts again for what the man might actually be capable of. Rusty knew quite well that any super-scientist could gain a specialty just from working with those he admired, but since Ruin hadn’t been working with the Guild (not under his own name at least), his work would have to stem, at least in part, from his education.

 

When he had a decent list of professors that the OSI should contact and interrogate, Rusty found himself at loose ends once again. He sighed heavily, noting that it was only 2pm and wondering if he’d drunk too much coffee. He’d normally be lagging most of the morning and then lie spent on the couch by afternoon. Something about Afton Preserve had him on edge. It was too normal. This house was too normal.

 

Even the image of Brock and himself as the happy, domestic couple. A huge, muscular man who looked like he might actually be a body builder, and his… _smaller_ companion, who did the baking. The gag would’ve worked better with Amber. Rusty had gone after a number of blonds in his life, but never had they been even slightly attainable. The idea that he and Brock might have naturally become an item was purely laughable.

 

That put him on edge, too. They hadn’t even been very close this past year, not since Brock had elected to leave them. He and Brock had engaged in a few heated “discussions” about that choice when it became evident that Brock and New SPHINX were living on the compound, but otherwise, their relationship suffered from silence and distance. Now, SPHINX was OSI once again, and Brock lived… oh, who knew where. Not Rusty or the boys, that was for certain, and Brock wasn’t about to tell them.

 

They were on borrowed time here, together. Rusty knew he should be grateful for that, but he’d never been good at being grateful for bait that had a hook in it. Brock was here for the job. He’d enjoy the time with the boys. And that was it.

 

Rusty went back to the kitchen and straightened things until he grew annoyed with himself. He took the remaining loaf of zucchini bread (which was a bit smaller than he’d left it, thanks to Hank), and carved off several more slices. He heated them up for half a minute in the microwave, then spread some Not!Butter on them, and went outside.

 

Dean remained on the swing, unmoving, with his nose in a copy of _The Bell Jar_.

 

“I am unarmed. I come bearing bread that no animals died for,” Rusty said, pulling up a chair.

 

Dean crooked his mouth to the side and put down his book. “I’m surveilling.”

 

“You’re reading a book about a girl who tries to kill herself.”

 

Dean blinked. “You’ve read it?”

 

“I took a creative writing class in college. I know who Sylvia Plath is.”

 

Dean rolled his eyes and lifted the book again. “I looked up a list of commonly read books in public high schools, and I’m working my way through. I like it, but… it doesn’t mean anything.” He hesitated and lowered his book slightly again. “Please don’t tell Uncle Hatred I’m reading this. He’s so weird about me sometimes.”

 

“Weird?” Rusty pressed, unable to keep alarm out of his voice.

 

“Not like _that_. He asked if I was a ‘friend of Ana,’ and accused me of cutting. I’m pretty sure if he knew I was reading a book by a poet who killed herself, he’d lock me in the panic room and never let me touch anything sharp ever again.”

 

“I’m not thrilled about it either,” Rusty pointed out. “Do they really have high school kids read that?”

 

Dean looked at the cover. “It was on the list. There was a lot of Shakespeare, and Charles Dickens, who could use an editor, honestly. I like Plath’s protagonist better. I think any teenager of any era could relate to what she’s feeling. Maybe not the um, take a bunch of pills and hide in a chimney bit, but the rest.”

 

Rusty held the plate out for Dean, who eyed the zucchini bread as though it might secretly have bacon in it (not that Rusty hadn’t considered that), and took a piece.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“See anyone suspicious?”

 

Dean shook his head as he chewed. “Nope. But I think Mrs. Ellis is cheating on her husband with Mr. White.”

 

Rusty’s eyes went round. “What?”

 

“They were talking in that sort of alley between the Ellis property and the fence.” Dean leaned his head forward a little. “And I can’t lip-read _that well_ , but they were saying something about Mrs. White not finding out, and being more careful next time, and how Mr. Ellis would be out of town next weekend.”

 

“What a seedy little hamlet we’ve moved into.”

 

“It’ll do until we get our cable hooked up. Not really what Brock was looking for, though.”

 

“Does Brock know you can lip-read?”

 

Dean thought about that for a moment. “Huh. I guess not. Maybe he just wanted me out of his hair today.”

 

“More likely he wanted the kid that _looked_ more like him by his side while he was going around the neighborhood. Blond. He’s all calculations when he’s doing an operation.” Rusty spread his hands and shook his head. “That’s just how he is. He forgets I’m not luggage, sometimes. It’s a hyperfocus you’ll never break.”

 

“Is it weird being in this house with him?” Dean asked.

 

“Nooo.” Rusty waved the idea away. “We’ve worked together for such a long time. People have mistaken that familiarity for couple-dom dozens of times. That should be the easiest part of this.”

 

Dean looked unconvinced. “You never had to share a bed, though.”

 

“We’ve shared beds. We shared a tiny, cold tent once and had to huddle together for warmth.”

 

“Wait, what? Is that for real, or was that _Brokeback Mountain_? Where were Hank and I?”

 

“Um, I think with Uncle Action… Well, it was more like leaving you with Aunt Jeanie. She knew how to look after children.”

 

“Why don’t I remember it?” Dean asked suspiciously.

 

“Because two-year-olds don’t remember that much.” Rusty shrugged. “And I had a fight with Action later, and we stopped leaving you with them.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“ _Brockback Mountain_ ,” Rusty said, laughing to himself.

 

“Stuff happened in that tent,” Dean pointed out.

 

“Stuff never happened in _our_ tent.” Rusty got up, feeling a little uncomfortable, in spite of his joke. “I don’t think Brock has ever been that cold or that drunk.”

 

Dean tilted his head to the side and looked up at his father seriously.

 

“Enjoy your depressing literature.”

 

Rusty slipped back into the house. He still didn’t have anything to do, so he went back up to the attic to see if there was any new data to go over.

 

* * *

 

For years, Brock had been one to sleep entirely nude, and Rusty was well aware of that. When he didn’t, Brock only slept in his briefs. Now, he was sleeping with his briefs, and a t-shirt, and a light pair of shorts. They seemed to be having some kind of escalation game with the night-time clothing, because Rusty felt obligated to put on his pajamas, which he rarely if ever wore at this time of year.

 

“I told Shore Leave to knock off the cattiness and just give you more to do,” Brock said after he got into bed.

 

“What, did he tattle on me? Am I _annoying him_ with trying to get enough information to do my job?” Rusty snapped.

 

“He’s more used to techs he can boss around. Hell, he’s basically a tech who went field agent himself. He doesn’t talk about that too much, but he’s usually _my_ tech guy in the field, if it comes to it. Running the back end usually gets handed off to Sky Pilot or Snoopy.” Brock slipped down under the covers and stretched his arms over his head. “Anyway, I looked over your list and sent it on to headquarters. They’ll let us know in a few days if anything turned up. It was a good idea. Told ‘em it came from your OSI training.”

 

“God forbid, someone outside their little club come up with something worthwhile.” Rusty crossed his arms.

 

“It’s not like that. I just know how to work ‘em.”

 

Rusty felt his face burning when Brock’s hand touched his arm.

 

“Today has been weird. But it went pretty good, as these things go. And by tomorrow morning, we’ll start having more data to analyze.” Brock looked up at him with eyes that were warmer and more inviting than his ice blue should allow for. “We got this.”

 

“It must’ve gone well out there. Your attitude sure turned around since yesterday.”

 

“Maybe your zucchini bread was just that damn good.”

 

That was too much. Rusty swatted Brock’s hand off of him and scooted away. He was pleased, though. Oddly. He didn’t do domestic that often. It wasn’t that it was boring, though it could be, and more that it left him feeling oddly vulnerable. He’d learned most of those skills by sheer force during a time when he’d never felt more alone. A new, uncertain father, under the protection of a woman who held his and his sons’ safety in her hands in exchange for… well. He’d always known what she wanted. Myra was anything but subtle.

 

Any pride he gained from the boys enjoying his cooking came part and parcel with memories of studying the cookbook, always one boy in his arms at least, and Myra lurking just out of sight. They came with memories of what it was like as a child not to have regular access to food, even when the cupboards had been filled, because Helper was only free to care for him if he wasn’t needed in the lab.

 

“It’ll get easier,” Brock promised, misreading Rusty’s discomfort.

 

“It’s fine. Not like we haven’t had harder missions.” Rusty paused. “You remember that one—the boys were about two—and we were up in Canada collecting this rare and damn near impossible to find plant, so I could extract a segment of its DNA?”

 

“Ohhh, yeah, that tent.” Brock chuckled. “Goddamn, it was cold.”

 

“Thank god you’re a human radiator.”

 

“Even then, I don’t think we would’ve made it if we hadn’t wrapped ourselves in that blanket around those heat packs.”

 

Rusty smoothed the front of his pajamas, then turned and gave a flat smile before turning off the light. “Night, sweetheart.”

 

“G’night, babe.”


	3. Chapter 3

 As Brock had promised, the days grew busier and busier. Rusty found himself mostly spending time in the attic with Shore Leave, who had toned down the sass by about two clicks, and observing the footage from the cameras Brock and Hank had placed. Meanwhile, the boys fell into a routine of providing normalcy, with Hank mostly running around the neighborhood and talking with other kids, and Dean occasionally wandering around and finding shady places to lurk. Occasionally, they returned with some news about the neighborhood, but overall, their neighbors seemed normal.

 

Apart from the one who seemed determined to destroy the world.

 

Whether that was Ruin’s object, or he was just coming up with one of those advancements that looked remarkably to outsiders like a doomsday weapon (Rusty had been there too many times to count), Frank Ruin was playing with some intense fire. Rusty had been able to determine the basics of what he was working with. A few days after planting the baked goods on him, Shore Leave had crawled that camouflaged little camera all over the house, and then into the basement, where Ruin was doing the bulk of his work.

 

That was when Rusty had spotted the fungi. Without full access to Ruin’s lab notes, though, it was hard to tell what the fungus was designed for. Shore Leave did his best to take pictures of anything Ruin left lying around. Names of compounds. Notes written by hand. Whatever it took.

 

“Direct the camera over there.” Rusty pointed to the samples laid out side by side in a clear container. “Can we zoom in on them with this?”

 

“Wouldn’t be much of a spy camera if we couldn’t.” Shore Leave hit a few keys, and Rusty stared in disbelief at the sample. It looked familiar.

 

Of course, it looked familiar. Professor Impossible had made something similar, which had failed, back in the early eighties. A fast-propagating fungus that, once properly fed, could cover and clog any metallic surface and _eat it_.

 

“What’s she look like, Rust Bucket? Is she pretty?” Shore Leave asked.

 

“Ugly as sin.”

 

There was no reason that the fungus would necessarily do the same thing. Fungi were an entire kingdom’s worth of species. Their variations, especially with scientific intervention, could be endless. Bioengineering of plants had changed the nature of food supplies, created plastics, and changed wolves into teacup doggies to carry around in a purse.

 

“What’s going on in that busy brain there?” Shore Leave prodded. “I can use the equipment, but I’m not so good with this obscure sciencey bullshit.”

 

“I could be wrong about the bullshit.”

 

“I am keeping that open as a possibility. Trust.”

 

Rusty hesitated, then proceeded to explain how Dr. Impossible’s technology-devouring fungus was meant to end the Cold War. Shore Leave remained silent, not a quip or even a raised brow, as he took in the explanation.

 

“How do we know if it’s meant to wipe out technology?” Shore Leave asked finally.

 

“We _don’t_. Not without a sample that we could _test_. Even if it’s meant to do something else, though… The rapid propagation, by its nature, would mean once he releases it, we might only have an hour or two to stop keep it from spreading into the environment.” Rusty crossed his arms and stared at the screen. “Once it does, every passing minute will require a larger counter-response to the problem. If it’s just a copy of Impossible’s work? We’re looking at a potential shut-down of the States as a superpower. If he decided to get cute and reengineer the fungus to wipe out vegetation, or take over people’s minds like a parasite, then we could be dealing with something more like an extinction event.”

 

“Of…?”

 

“Everything.”

 

Shore Leave stared, utterly speechless. Rusty said nothing. This wasn’t his first rodeo.

 

“And if we just set his house on fire?”

 

Rusty fixed a withering gaze on him. “We’d probably be spreading the fungus _for him_. You can sometimes kill these things with fire, or a bomb, but the reality is that some fungi release spores when they are set on fire, simply as a natural part of the life cycle of a forest. I wouldn’t touch that stuff until I knew for certain how the spores disperse.”

 

“Holy shit.”

 

“Yep.” Rusty bit his lower lip and leaned over the monitor. “Let’s look closer. Get whatever you can from the lab today. We should send a report back to HQ with suggestions on how to proceed. I don’t know what you people would do at a time like this besides go in with guns blazing, but not knowing Ruin myself, if he has been working with or meeting anyone else, I wouldn’t necessarily go that route.”

 

He paused, narrowing his eyes at the samples again. “If you could _find_ Impossible, we might be able to find out if he had any pretenses of creating a fungicide for this thing. He’s never been inclined to finish his work like that, but we might get lucky. He lost funding for the project because the US government feared the fungus causing problems outside Communist countries. Or they feared their _constituents_ getting scared about that.”

 

“He’d be in his tower, probably,” Shore Leave said.

 

“Hardly. He left his tower a few months ago, after he attacked me with his new best friends Phantom Limb and Baron Underbheit. And two weirdos I don’t even know. He’s flipped loyalties, soldier.”

 

“Wait, _what?”_

“How do you not know that?”

 

“I think we would’ve heard if Impossible joined the Guild.”

 

Rusty shook his head. “He _didn’t_. He joined whatever Limb is calling The Revenge Society.”

 

“Oohhh. Yeah, Gathers would know more about that. Not my department until they make a move.” Shore Leave ruffled his hair. “Okay, let’s get on that report. HQ runs around the clock, so someone will be up to receive it. The sooner we get our people on research here, the better.”

 

A few hours later, Rusty came down from the attic, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He really needed to have samples of _both_ Impossible’s old fungus _and_ Ruin’s new one. Whether he’d get either might be a matter of luck.

 

It was late. He should take a shower and head to bed, but he didn’t feel like lying next to Brock knowing this. Shaking him awake to talk wasn’t an option, either. Brock might choke him. Rusty sat down on the sofa and stared at the television, but didn’t pick up the remote.

 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he’d sat down and when he’d heard, “Hey, Pop,” next to him.

 

Rusty sighed. “You should be in bed, Hank.”

 

“Yeah, but I woke up. Have you not gone to bed yet?”

 

“No. Shore Leave and I have been working on a report,” Rusty said flatly.

 

“Bleh.”

 

“Yeah. Bleh.”

 

“Maybe we could make some reports, too,” Hank suggested. “Stuff we notice around the neighborhood.”

 

“Reporting directly to Brock is good enough.” Rusty didn’t move for another few minutes, then closed his eyes, feeling Hank’s fixed on him firmly. “What?”

 

“You have that look. Like you’re pissed off at me. But you’re not looking at me. Are you pissed at Brock? Or Shore Leave?”

 

“No, Hank, I’m just… Thinking.” Rusty looked to Hank, then shrugged. “I have some work to do, but I can’t do it without getting more information from Ruin and/or the OSI team. And it’s complicated, so the sooner the better.”

 

“Do you gotta wait? Isn’t that what the cover’s for, so you can get the information you need?”

 

“It is, but if I blow our cover pushing Ruin around, he might do something drastic, or prove to be working with someone else more intimidating.” Rusty pulled out of his slump and rested against the sofa cushions. “It’s odd for him to be working alone.”

 

“ _You_ do.”

 

“Doctors Venture don’t play well with others. Besides J.J. And even he doesn’t manage very well when _we_ have to work together,” Rusty admitted.

 

“I dunno. Grandpop had all of Team Venture around.”

 

“But no other scientists. Or very few, anyway. He had the one who he worked with sort of regularly, but… Ben is pretty relaxed.”

 

“So we gotta find his posse ‘o fellow flim-flammers and rub ‘em out!” Hank said excitedly.

 

“I’m not rubbing anyone out! I haven’t flat out killed anyone since I was, um, hm.” Rusty tried to remember the last one for a moment, but shook his head. He didn’t want to think about it, now or later.

 

“I didn’t mean like, literally.”

 

Rusty took his glasses off and polished them with the hem of his shirt. “Go back to bed, Hank.”

 

“If I climb up on the bunk now, I’ll wake Dean up.”

 

“Then…” Slipping his glasses on, Rusty rose and went to the hall closet to pull out a blanket. He tossed it at Hank. “You should try to sleep.”

 

“Are you gonna?”

 

“Probably.”

 

Rusty headed back down the hallway. There was nothing he could do at the moment, and going back up to the attic while Shore Leave was trying to talk to HQ would be a waste of time. His best bet was to log a few hours of sleep and get to work on whatever data OSI had in the morning. Even if he was just banging away at a potential fungicide for a strain that Ruin might not even be working with.

 

When he reached his and Brock’s room, the bed was empty. So he needn’t have worried about talking to Brock about this before bed after all. Rusty couldn’t think where that man could’ve gotten to. He stood there for several minutes, doing nothing, not even thinking anything, before changing into his pajamas and curling up in the bed by himself.

 

Nearly an hour passed, and during that time, Rusty stared into the darkness with fatigue pressing him down as his racing heart urged him to get up and do something. As there was nothing to be done, he remained in bed.

 

* * *

 

Brock returned to their “home” to find Hank sacked out on the sofa. He walked over, silently, and pulled his blanket back over him (it had slipped a bit), and went to the office to deposit his evening’s work before heading into the bedroom.

 

After a quick shower, Brock climbed into bed and laid his head down, letting it swim with his to-do list for the upcoming week. When Rusty moved and spoke, even though it was quiet, Brock jumped hard, causing the headboard to hit the wall.

 

“Relax,” Rusty said in a grumpy tone. “I was just asking what kept you.”

 

“Hn.” Brock lay down again. His eyes were beginning to adjust a bit, and the moonlight coming in through the window illuminated Rusty’s squinting face just slightly. “Took a page from your book. Was trying to get flora and ground samples without being noticed.”

 

“Oh.” Rusty pushed himself up. “Where did you put them?”

 

“It’s three in the morning. Go back to sleep. They’ll still be there in the daylight.”

 

“I was barely asleep,” Rusty argued. He rubbed his forehead and stared into the dark of their room.

 

“You’ll do crap work if you’re exhausted, and you know it. Lie down,” Brock ordered.

 

Rusty shot him an insolent look, but lay down again, scowling deeply.

 

“What’s got you so restless?”

 

“Maybe we should send the boys away. People believe we’re a couple now. We could say they went to visit their aunts, or something.” Rusty’s brow was stern, but his eyes were wide.

 

“It’s only been a couple of weeks. We send the boys away, it could cause suspicion.”

 

“Then, they’re visiting a _sick_ aunt. Or a grandmother. Who they’re bringing a basket of goodies. Does it matter?”

 

“Only if Ruin starts to wonder why our children suddenly disappeared.” Brock propped his head up with one hand. “Did you find something today?”

 

“Not… _definitively_.”

 

Brock didn’t press further. That probably meant something bad, and he could get into the details in the morning. For now, the Doc was an operative who needed rest to function effectively when they needed him.

 

Reaching over with his free hand, Brock did something he hadn’t done in years. He pressed his thumb between Rusty’s eyes, along the bridge of his nose, and began to rub. Rusty made a noise in protest, but Brock’s hand moved fluidly and continuously.

 

“Tell me to stop,” Brock said.

 

Rusty did no such thing, and Brock’s thumb expanded the circles. His fingers began to move back and forth over the expanse of his forehead, then at his temple.

 

“At the first sign a’trouble, I send you and the boys out that gate as fast as you can go. If you can’t get there—“

 

“The lockdown room in the basement.”

 

Brock nodded slowly. “The boys know where it is. They know to get there if there’s trouble.”

 

“Since when does Hank willingly run _away_ from trouble? You remember our last trip to Underland?”

 

Shit. Brock didn’t need to be thinking about times like that before going to bed.

 

“He bit his tongue. He was fine,” Brock said with as much calm as he could muster. Funny, usually it was the Doc breezing over the danger to the boys. He must’ve found something very worrying tonight.

 

“If you wanna pull out of this OP then it’s gonna be ten times as hard to get a new cover,” Brock pointed out.

 

“Don’t pull that with me.” Rusty rolled over onto his other side with a huff. “I know what the stakes are. I’ve been doing this kind of thing far longer than you have.”

 

“I didn’t—“

 

Brock sighed. Some part of him made him check the door, just to be sure that it was shut, as if that should matter when his entire role for the next few weeks was to be this man’s partner.  He put his hand on Rusty’s shoulder, and when it wasn’t shrugged off, Brock inched a bit closer.

 

“I wasn’t suggesting anything. I was just sayin’.”

 

“Well, don’t. You think I don’t already know what happens if I blow this one? I never should have let you bring the boys in on this.”

 

Brock leaned his head forward until his forehead touched the back of Rusty’s head. “I know.”

 

“You… what?”

 

“If Ruin’s got _you_ riled up, when _nothing_ riles you up, even getting your arm torn off, then yeah. We miscalculated this one, and we shouldn’t’ve brought the boys.”

 

After a moment of tense silence, Rusty drew in a deep breath, then let it go. “Just so long as you know.”

 

“This part of the OP, I’m basically here as support for you and Shore Leave. Use me. The rest of the time, I’ll keep eyes on the boys. I’ll be on ‘em so much they get sick of me.”

 

“Promise?”

 

“I swear it.”

 

Rusty rolled his shoulders back, as if trying to relieve the tension there.

 

“Now get some damn sleep. I need you alert enough tomorrow to do some super science.”

 

“Knowing I need to sleep and actually being able to sleep are two different matters.”

 

Brock found his hand rubbing circles once again, but this time on Rusty’s back. He’d never done this before. Not when the Doc wasn’t injured. He didn’t stop this time, either.

 

“Just keep your eyes closed and breathe in and out deeply,” Brock instructed.

 

Clearly, Rusty was tired because instead of grousing more, he actually listened. Brock continued talking, in a slow, even tone. He started first with a “remember that time” from when the boys were young. This elicited a few “hm”s and “uh-huh”s at first, but as the first story blended into a second and a third, Rusty stopped responding apart from a light snore here and there.

 

Job well done. Brock closed his own eyes, but didn’t roll back over to his side of the bed.

 

* * *

“Mrs. Donovan finally cleared out those beetles that were eating up her garden,” Dean reported.

 

Brock sighed and tossed the football back to Hank.

 

“You figure that one out with your super-spy powers?” Hank teased. He pulled the ball far behind his head and threw as hard as he could.

 

Brock still caught it easy enough, but he took a step back, just to let Hank think he was doing well.

 

“No. I figured that out by talking to her when I walked by her house the other day.” Dean leaned against the fence separating the patio from the front yard. “I never said it was important. You asked what I learned. That’s it. She’s been having beetle problems, but they’re over.”

 

“Anyone else in the neighborhood screwing each other?” Hank asked.

 

Dean opened his book and ignored Hank.

 

“One thing you learn about being a good detective—“ Brock motioned for Hank to go further back. “—is that you’ll find more clues if you don’t have something specific that you’re looking for. The patterns, y’know, they reveal themselves as they go.”

 

“C’mon.” Hank toed the ground. “Do we really need the gossip channel?”

 

“Only if I end up needing to use that information against someone later.”

 

Hank caught the ball again and screwed his mouth up as he thought about that. “How do you know what’s important and what’s not?”

 

“You don’t. So you just have to keep your eyes open.”

 

Brock looked back at Dean just as the boy’s eyes flicked back up at them and caught sight of the book cover with a frown. Hank tossed the ball back, hard, and Brock caught it without turning his head.

 

“And be good at using your peripheral vision, I guess,” Dean said.

 

“How do you do that?” Hank demanded.

 

“Practice. And having two young boys determined to fall off of or into things,” Brock answered honestly. “Whatcha readin’ there, Dean? Anything good?”

 

“ _Night_. It’s well-written,” Dean answered. “Sad, though.”

 

“Some dramatic girl book.” Hank rolled his eyes.

 

“It’s about the Holocaust.”

 

“Yeah, what’s the interest in that, all of a sudden?” Brock asked.

 

Dean scanned over Brock, giving him an oddly suspicious look. “It’s what high school kids are given to read.”

 

“Why do they make them read such depressing stuff?” Hank asked.

 

“I don’t know.” Dean looked off to the side. “Maybe they’re trying to give them a sense of what life is like outside their experience?”

 

“What do you need that for? We’ve been all over the world!”

 

“That doesn’t mean I _understand_ anything.” Dean placed a finger in the slim volume to hold his place and tapped the book against his palm. “Like why _actual_ Nazis came to our house less than a year ago trying to clone Hitler. Or why anyone would think wiping out a whole race is a good idea to begin with. We run into all these people who want to _hurt_ other people just, like, as a day job. And then there are people who hear their leaders say, yeah, let’s round up all these people. And they’re like, that’s a keen idea. We had camps in America, too. Did you know that? For the Japanese.”

 

“No way,” Hank said.

 

“Way. Very much _way_ ,” Dean said. “And Hitler was inspired by the eugenics movement to start with. There were a bunch of Americans who thought you had to wipe Deaf people or people who weren’t smart out of the gene pool for the good of humankind or something.”

 

Hank sucked in one cheek and stared hard at Dean.

 

“I am _not_ making that up!”

 

“No, he’s not,” Brock said finally. What the hell do you tell kids about this? It was a good thing he wasn’t _really_ a high school history teacher. “It’s just… a lot easier to kill a man than an idea.”

 

Hank fiddled with the football. “Why do they do that stuff, though?”

 

“It’s not usually my job to talk people down. So I don’t usually know why. Feels like, a lot comes from desperation or fear, but…” Brock put his hands on his hips, trying to come up with a real answer. “A good number, too, it’s just people being selfish. Valuing their own safety or, these days, the ability to get a lotta damn money over people’s lives.”

 

“How do you _fight_ that?” Dean asked.

 

“If I knew that, I’d’ve gone into politics instead of the service,” Brock admitted.

 

It wasn’t the most reassuring answer, but Dean didn’t seem any more disturbed than he had before. Hank stared at the ground and pushed his lips out.

 

“Lunch time!” Rusty sang as he came out onto the patio holding a plate of sandwiches.

 

Brock frowned. He doubted that the Doc had time to fuss around in the kitchen right now, what with analyzing all those samples and going over the interviews.

 

“Hank, go wash your hands. And bring in the potato salad and drinks, hm?” Rusty said as he put down the plates.

 

“Why doesn’t Dean have to do it?” Hank complained.

 

“Dean can do it,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “You get the drinks. I’ll get the potato salad.”

 

Brock sighed as he went to the table where Rusty was setting out the plates. “Those two are getting harder to handle.”

 

“Tell me about it.”

 

“I remember when we could tell ‘em henchmen were sleeping. Now they want to know why people commit genocide.”

 

Rusty sat down and pursed his lips. “You come up with any answers? Because I’m at a loss as to why anyone would randomly decide to shoot evil ‘shrooms at the world. Without a target, it’s a bizarre life choice.”

 

“Yep.” Brock shrugged.

 

The boys returned, carrying their assigned lunch components and talking about some adventure they’d had in a small country in central Europe. Brock smiled, glad to see the two of them talking to each other for once, instead of ignoring or arguing with each other.

 

“This is good.” Hank looked inside his sandwich. “Did you make this?”

 

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Rusty looked over at the fence and waved at Mr. Weinstock. “Shore Leave made them. He thought it would be better if the neighbors actually ever saw me, so we decided lunch on the patio would be fine.”

 

“That figures,” Hank said, mouth full of potato salad. “You’re best at breakfast.”

 

“That’s all anyone wants to eat anyway,” Rusty breezed.

 

“We should open up a family diner! And solve crimes together at night. Like… as a traveling band!” Hank said.

 

“You need to pick a thing, Hank,” Dean said. “We can’t run a diner _and_ be a traveling band _and_ solve crimes.”

 

“You don’t know that!”

 

“Maybe Dad could just take over for Hatred at HankCo,” Dean suggested.

 

“Yes! He can only make scrambled eggs with ketchup.”

 

Brock shifted his eyes over to the Weinstock house. He would see the yard over the fence, where Brenda Weinstock had come out to work in her garden. Her eyes lifted every so often, with less subtlety than she probably intended. Brock reached across the table to take Rusty’s hand. His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth, probably to protest. Instead, Rusty just grew a little red and pretended to watch the boys while Brock’s thumb stroked the back of his hand.


	4. Chapter 4

“I swear, half my life has involved going to parties full of people I couldn’t care less about,” Rusty said, trying to adjust his tie.

 

Brock turned him around and determinedly straightened Rusty’s collar. “Gotta do it.”

 

His skin grew warm in a way unrelated to the summer weather. Since they’d taken this assignment, Brock had become freer with the casual touches. Usually, they were in public when this happened, but it was growing more difficult to discern the difference between the touches made for the benefit of their cover and… just Brock.

 

“Here we go, then.” Rusty sighed. “Boys, be good!”

 

Brock walked back down the hallway and yelled, “Hank! Dean!”

 

Dean appeared first, eyes shifting between the two of them skeptically. Hank ran up right after.

 

“We’re gonna be gone for a few hours,” Brock said. “There’s food in the fridge. You two listen to Shore Leave, and just stay in the house, alright?”

 

“Okay,” Dean said.

 

Hank raised his fingers in a salute.

 

And with that, Rusty and Brock headed out for the potluck. Brock held a large dish of macaroni and cheese, while Rusty carried a marble bundt cake.

 

“How long do we have to stay?” Rusty crossed the street, approaching the Whites’ house, which was lit up from inside. Tiki torches lined the way to their open back gate. “Uh, front door? Side door?”

 

“Let’s try the front, first.”

 

The Whites’ doorbell chime was unnecessarily long and complex. Rusty glanced up at Brock as it ding-donged its way up the scale.

 

Brock shrugged. “Maybe we should get one.”

 

“Not if you paid me.” Rusty screwed his lips to the side. “Which, now that you think about it, would be a better way to get scientists to work for you than leveraging their kids.”

 

“It doesn’t work that way.”

 

“ _You_ get paid.”

 

“I’m an agent. Now quiet.”

 

Rusty tried with all his might to feign a pleasant expression as Wendy White opened the door. She was wearing a nice sundress with a light sweater over her shoulders.

 

“Hello! Oh, you must be the Sam! Terry brought us that lovely plate when you just moved in!” She beamed and waved them inside. “And I see your boy out reading on the porch all the time. I wish my Aaron was a reader.”

 

“The trick is getting him to _stop_ ,” Rusty said.

 

Wendy led them to the kitchen. “I can barely get Aaron away from his games to do his homework or go to the bathroom. Take what you can get. Unless he’s reading _The Anarchist’s Cookbook_.”

 

“Fair enough,” Brock said. “At least they aren’t wetting themselves.”

 

Wendy looked around her over-supplied kitchen. “We’re eating outside. We might have room on the table for one dish…” She paused. “Um, let’s bring out the macaroni, and I’ll have Wes clear the dishes when it’s time to bring out desserts.”

 

“You’re in for a real treat,” Brock said. “Sam makes some mean macaroni.”

 

Wendy considered the dish as she took it from Brock’s hands. “I think Carol Anne might want to challenge you on that.”

 

“Oh, I’d love to challenge her on who has the best mac and cheese,” Rusty said with feigned enthusiasm as he shot a scornful look at Brock.

 

The backyard was festooned with paper lanterns in the shape of multi-colored stars. People Rusty vaguely recognized from around the neighborhood milled around the lawn, clustering in groups around the food table or the fire pit.

 

At least it wasn’t a pack of supervillains playing party games.

 

Rusty didn’t like it, but as per usual with these kinds of things, the two of them split up. Brock would probably take a short amount of time connecting with the neighbors he knew, and eventually slip away inside to avoid having more conversations.

 

That left Rusty having the rest of the conversations. First continuing with Wendy White (and the more he talked to her, the more he hoped Dean had read her husband wrong), then Carol Anne DeLuca (who refused to concede defeat on the macaroni, but insisted that he bring over his zucchini bread some time so she could try it). More than a few of the husbands seemed a bit uncomfortable around him, which was just fine, as Rusty didn’t have much to say to them anyway, but Brock seemed to be getting along with them well enough. It suggested that the neighborhood had indeed already divided the two of them into gender roles. Little woman/strapping husband.

 

These people were so strange and stiff. Rusty couldn’t begin to understand why Ruin might want to live in this dreary neighborhood. At best, it might serve as a buffer to keep his work from being traced too quickly. But Ruin had clearly been found. Not much of a hiding place.

 

The OSI would put him away a long time. For now, Ruin had sentenced himself to unending potlucks. Rusty could only imagine the kind of self-loathing that led up to a choice like that.

 

“Kate,” Rusty said with a much cheer as he could muster.

  
The woman smiled and come forward with a big hug. “It’s good to see you! I was wondering how you and the boys were settling in.”

 

“Pretty well, so far.”

 

“I hear that people aren’t seeing much of you.”

 

“Oh. Well, I’ve been prepping for upcoming classes. Rather have it done, in case I have to pick up any more. Plus, if the boys want to do something in the summer…”

 

“Right. It would be good to be able to do something with the family before you and Terry really settle into it. He’s got the summer, right? Since the high schools wouldn’t start until August?”

 

“That’s right. Lucky bastard. I’ll probably start picking up summer classes next year as well.”

 

Kate shook her head. “The bread maker _and_ the bread winner.”

 

“Well, he’s better at keeping the house clean than I am, and the boys listen to him, so I guess I’ll give him a break,” Rusty said.

 

It was funny how easy undercover work was. At least this kind. Rusty rarely had to come up with details that deviated much from the plan they had laid out, and when he did, he could usually tell the basic truth about Brock and the boys and no one questioned it.

 

Half an hour elapsed before Rusty spotted the main reason for coming to this thing. Frank Ruin entered the backyard. His eyes shifted back and forth, taking in the gathering of lightly-buzzed suburbanites, the potluck spread, the ever-so-carefully selected yard decorations. He looked like he might crawl out of his skin.

 

But he didn’t. He lingered near the food, having gotten himself something to drink, and stood there awkwardly. Rusty scanned the crowd for Brock, but he was nowhere to be seen.

 

“Are you Frank?” Rusty said as he approached him. He reached for some punch to freshen up his drink. “You met my husband when we first moved in. He said you wanted to talk to me sometime.”

 

“Did he? I don’t remember saying that, um—“

 

Rusty flipped his hand forward. “Messages get lost in translation with him, sometimes. Anyway, you’ve talked to me, now. Sam Smith.”

 

“Right. You’re the one teaching science. Which university are you at?”

 

Ice broken, Rusty settled into a gentle back and forth with the man. Most of his answers came from the cover, just qualifying what Sam Smith would be up to come fall. Frank was less forthcoming about his career. He was “following up on some research opportunities.”

 

“Are you interested in flora or fauna, when it comes to DNA? I thought your husband said it was human DNA, mostly,” Frank said.

 

“I’m more officially trained in human genetics,” Rusty offered. “But I’ve done some work on isolating genes from a rare flower in the arctic. In theory, you could blend them in with human genetics and make someone very resistant to the cold, or able to replenish their energy from the sunlight.”

 

Frank’s brows rose. “Really. That sounds… That’s interesting. Did you ever get it to work?”

 

“Well, the former part, sort of. You can’t really override human systems so dramatically that they get their food from the sun. Not without bizarre side effects.” He laughed softly.

 

“Of course not.” Frank narrowed his eyes slightly. “It seems strange that anyone would let you just blend a plant’s DNA with a person.”

 

“I didn’t say I got it officially working on human subjects. And no, they won’t… unless the military decides it’s something they’d like to do for their soldiers.”

 

“Ah, well. It’s impossible to get academia to fund anything useful, eh?”

 

“Right?” Rusty shook his head. “Publish or perish. They have me working on a study in screening DNA in mice embryos.”

 

Frank chuckled. “Fascinating.”

 

“It pays. At least one of the boys is going to college, so we’re going to need the money. So you mentioned your research? Privately funded, I’m guessing? Just because you didn’t mention a university.”

 

“Privately funded, yes. I’m in biology as well, though I’ve never been interested in fauna much.”

 

“What do they have you working on?” Rusty made his voice as casual as he could. It was perfectly normal to ask about someone else’s research after they’d heard about yours.

 

“My employer wants to keep things private. NDA. You understand how that is.”

 

“I’ve been there. Not that it matters too much, since no one in my family understands what I’m working on.”

 

“Heh.” Frank nodded and sighed.

 

It seemed like the natural end to their conversation, but the moment Rusty looked away, Frank started asking questions about Brock. How they’d met, how long they’d been together, things like that.

 

Of course, the first answer was college. The second was the age of the twins. But the more Frank asked, the more suspicious Rusty became. Frank’s interest in Brock probably denoted _interest_.

 

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to see where the man in question snuck off to. He’s not big on the crowds,” Rusty said.

 

“He mentioned that. That _you_ were the more outgoing one.”

 

Rusty barked a laugh. He shouldn’t contradict Brock. Undercover was basically a “yes, and” improv game. “Well, maybe _comparatively_. And not lately, since I’ve been so busy.”

 

“That’s how it goes. Hope your work pays off. Universities don’t seem to ever know when they’ve got a good thing.”

 

“They don’t, do they?”

 

Rusty took his leave at long last and slipped inside the house. There he had to say a few words to Brenda Weinstock, and Carol Anne, and Karen (aka Mrs. Ellis, the shady dame of Pagoda Lane) before even beginning to conduct his search.

 

Unshockingly, Brock was sitting in the TV room with Wes White, Bob Weinstock, and Gabe DeLuca, drinking a beer and watching basketball.

 

“Oh, hey,” Brock said.

 

“You’re so predictable,” Rusty replied.

 

The other men laughed, looking at one another with that insider expression of “busted.” Rusty wasn’t certain whether he ought to play into their expectations or not. He just crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe.

 

Brock grinned at Rusty, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

“You’d think with two guys in the house, watching sports wouldn’t be a problem,” Wes said.

 

Rusty rolled his eyes. “Fine, watch sports. Last party we went to, he went off to watch this special about a giant crossbow. I’m not sure whether I prefer you sneaking off to ogle balls or gape at enormous pointy weapons.”

 

Brock laughed while the other men looked increasingly uncomfortable. “You got me there, babe.”

 

“I’m gonna check in on the boys.”

 

“They’ll probably be fine,” Wes said. “Aren’t they sixteen?”

 

“Just you wait until Aaron is that age.”

 

“He’s a handful now. The kid is twelve, and every word out of his mouth is either some kind of insult, or a meme I don’t understand.”

 

 “I don’t know what a meme is. But by age 15 or 16, they start thinking they’re adults, which means they cause increasingly greater mayhem.”

 

“He’s right.” Brock got up. “And I should be the one to call. Give us a few, guys.”

 

Rusty smirked at the others as Brock left the room. They went further down the hallway until they were in an empty study room.

 

“Jeez, these houses. Never seen so many useless rooms.” Brock searched around the room for a minute before coming back to Rusty. “You found something.”

 

“Not necessarily, but I wanted to check in anyway. I had a talk with Frank.” Rusty sat on the arm of an overstuffed chair. “He has a crush on you.”

 

“Ugh. Is that it?”

 

“No. Why would I pull you away with that impressive display of male bonding just for that?”

 

“If we needed to change tactics with him, you might.”

 

“No, I’m just questioning his motive, based on talking to him.”

 

Brock nodded, listening as Rusty recounted the conversation. There wasn’t much to tell, but it could be important. If the expression on his face were any indication, Brock seemed to think so as well.

 

When Rusty had finished, Brock stepped closer, saying nothing, but looking at him with a deep concentration.

 

Rusty tilted his head back. “What—“

 

All at once, Brock bowed over him and pressed their lips together. Rusty’s brows shot up, and he froze. Dozens of awkwardly close moments, states of undress or completely free of clothing, pressed together skin to skin, sharing heat or space. _This_ was new. This was…

 

Wonderful.

 

It had been so long since Rusty had kissed anyone. The feeling was strange. Wet, not entirely unappealing. His heart sped up, and without thinking, he reached for Brock’s neck, gripping the back of it as though to keep him from pulling away now that he was there. Years had gone by with Rusty pushing this possibility to the very back of his consciousness, out of reach of even the depths of self-pity. And yet, somehow, Brock’s lips were on his, sucking in his lower lip, dominantly taking him in. Brock wouldn’t have to do a thing to keep Rusty where he wanted him, but his hand moved to Rusty’s back and stayed there.

 

“Oh, God!” Carol Anne gasped.

 

The two of them turned toward the door to see the older woman, holding her hand to her chest and her mouth agape.

 

“Uh, sorry, Carol,” Brock said.

 

And he said it with just enough measured sheepishness that Rusty realized that he’d _known_ someone was coming. What had Rusty expected? Brock was a pro at this spy stuff. He could fake a make-out session without feeling a single thing.

 

“What is it?” Rusty asked irritably.

 

“Oh my.” Carol Anne smiled. “I just saw the two of you come back here… and you didn’t come back, so…”

 

Rusty stood and brushed off his clothes. “I really need to check in on the boys now. Why don’t you head back to your friends, _sweetheart_?”

 

“Sam,” Brock protested.

 

Somehow, calling him by the wrong name after _that_ made it worse.

 

* * *

 

“I’ve just been reviewing some new interviews about this Ruin guy,” Shore Leave said. “How’s the party? You’d better bring me back some lemon squares.”

 

“What?” Rusty sat on the porch and crossed his arm over himself.

 

“You are at a bougie block party. There are _always_ lemon squares.”

 

“I’ll make you some later. Or get a recipe from one of the women here. There has to be a benefit to living in this domestic hell.”

 

“Aw, not having fun at the party?”

 

“Can you just get one of my offspring on the phone?”

 

“Fine, fine.”

 

Rusty crossed his legs and closed his eyes. His heart wouldn’t slow down. He was having trouble pushing what happened in the study to the back of his brain. And he was trying. God, was he trying.

 

“Um, Rusta Rhyme,” Shore Leave said uncertainly. “We’ve got a problem.”

 

“What? What problem? What did they do?”

 

“They’re not here.”

 

Rusty pressed his fingers to his temple. “They’re probably just out exploring the neighborhood. Even though Brock, er, Terry said to stay in the house.”

 

“They left their phones here, so I can’t track ‘em, but I’ll keep looking and give you a buzz in a few.”

 

“Thanks.” Rusty put his phone in his lap and stared out over the neighborhood. It was dark now. The stars as visible as they would be at the compound.

 

“Who’s Brock?” asked a feminine voice behind him. Wendy.

 

Rusty looked back and grimaced. God, they had to be aware every fucking moment. “Not Brock. _Brick_. It was Terry’s old nickname in college.”

 

“Ohhh, I misheard. But it’s appropriate. He’s a big man.” She sat next to him and crossed her legs. “Carol Anne said she may have offended you. Sorry about that. I didn’t expect her to be the one, honestly. I expected Wes to step in it before any of the wives here, but Carol is definitely a busy-body.”

 

“I know. She’s come over to talk more than anyone else.” Rusty tapped his phone against his knee. “I wasn’t offended. It’s just a bit embarrassing, getting caught making out like teenagers.”

 

Wendy touched her cheek. “Don’t be. I wish Wes and I still had that sense of passion. It’s rare, when you’ve been together with someone for so long.”

 

Rusty couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Especially not when it was about a relationship that was built entirely on circumstance. Any OSI agent could’ve been assigned to the Venture Compound after Myra.

 

“I know you don’t feel entirely comfortable here,” Wendy said. She smiled and held up a hand as he tried to protest. “Please don’t feel pressured to change just to be around people like us. We’ve all lived here for a long time. It’s good to have a place that feels safe. But we were all new once. Plus, it’s _boring_ without new and different people coming in every once and a while.”

 

“Even weird, science-obsessed hermits?”

 

“Especially weird, science-obsessed hermits. Let’s be honest. You’re easier to accept than Frank.” Wendy shook her head. “It took about a year to get him to come to these parties. And he’s never hosted one.”

 

As irritated as Rusty was by the evening, this was his chance to get some easy intel on their target. He forcibly shoved his issues away and took a calming breath.

 

“Parties are easier as a couple. Going into a group of people who all know each other?”  

 

“Definitely true.”

 

“I’m sure you could connect more with him going over to his house.”

 

“Um.” Wendy pressed her lips together. “Hardly anyone has ever been inside. He’s a pretty private person. I mean, he seems nice, but it’s been hard to get to know him.”

 

“Huh. So does he leave the neighborhood for work? Does he ever bring anyone over?”

 

“No, he mostly stays in his house. He had a dog once, and you could see him walking it around the neighborhood, but I think the poor thing got sick and died.”

 

“Oh.” Rusty pressed his lips together. He’d been there, with experiments that killed pets. “Maybe he just needs time until he gets a new one.”

 

“Probably.” Wendy looked over to the end of the block. “Left his lights on.”

 

“Hm.” What else would Brock ask? Or Amber? Rusty knew they’d have questions to ask that would prove critical to their investigation, but he couldn’t think of any. “Have you tried smaller gatherings? Terry’s really better in smaller groups. That’s why I put up with him sneaking off at parties.”

 

Wendy seemed to light up at that idea. “That might help. I’ll reach out to him to see if he’d be interested in some coffee talk once a week.”

 

She paused, twisting her fingers. “Would you want to come? I think it would be a bit odd if I invited him to a ladies’ luncheon.”

 

“It would probably still count as one with my attending, but it’s the thought that counts, hm?” Rusty glanced at his phone, hoping Shore Leave had found the boys already. Maybe they’d snuck out to the backyard to “camp” or something, like they used to.

 

“The thought and not inviting anyone he objects to.”

 

“So Carol Anne is out.”

 

“Well, clearly, but I was thinking more of Celeste.”

 

Rusty’s phone buzzed, but he held off answering. “Celeste? Who is that?”

 

“Oh, Mrs. Donovan. I don’t know why, but they don’t talk to each other at parties, _ever_. She’s his neighbor, sort of. Not on either side of his house, of course. That garden of hers goes all the way up to the back edge of his property.”

 

“Really. Suburban garden wars,” Rusty muttered.

 

“Apparently. Do you need to…?” Wendy pointed at the phone.

 

“Yes. Just a minute.” Rusty picked up the phone and stepped toward the edge of the porch. “Henry?”

 

“If only,” Shore Leave said. He sighed. “I’m sorry to say this, but your pups have slipped off into Ruin’s house. I can see them on the cams.”

 

“ _What_?” Rusty said sharply.

 

“I already messaged Brock. But you can’t just storm over there. Not unless we wanna explain why your kids decided to go into his house while he was out.”

 

“I’m coming back over,” Rusty said. He turned to Wendy. “Sorry, I need to—“

 

“No, I got that from the Dad Voice. Don’t worry about it. Come back if you can.” Wendy waved him off and headed back inside. “Good luck, whatever they did.”

 

After the door closed, Rusty crossed the street. “Tell Brock to get eyes on Ruin. If he’s still at the party, keep him there.”

 

“Message received.”

 

* * *

 

It had seemed like a good idea. They never got to go on adventures anymore, hardly, and Hank knew that all the adults in the neighborhood would be off getting their drunk on at Mrs. White’s potluck. All he really needed was a good partner to get in, and Dean still kind of owed him for saving him from Myra a few weeks ago. Even if they hadn’t really been there looking for him.

 

He must’ve been bored, because it didn’t take nearly as much convincing as Hank had thought it would. Instead, Dean voiced a few objections to the general plan and suggested they leave their phones in their room with a game playing loudly so Shore Leave would think they were still in there.

 

It had worked, too. They staggered their path toward Ruin’s house and then split up. Dean hopped the fence and slipped into the back patio (which Ruin kept unlocked, just like they did theirs), and went around to the front to let Hank in. From there, Hank led the way, looking upstairs and then down in his lab. It was bigger than Hank had ever imagined and even had doors branching off to the either side.

 

He looked into one of the rooms to find a large hydroponic system with thick weeds sprouting out of each tray. Or thick WEED. Hank wasn’t close enough to tell when he heard Dean mutter, “Ugh, gross,” and went back to see him scraping some of the gooey fungus into a vial.

 

“What are you doing?” Hank demanded.

 

“Trying to get a _sample_ without inhaling this stuff and _dying_.” Dean stoppered it and held it away from him in a hand covered with his sleeve. “It’s growing up the side of the test tube. Yuck.”

 

“Well, Pop said he needed samples. You think he’ll need more than one?”

 

“I don’t know. We should’ve cleared this with Shore Leave first. He could’ve told us what to get.”

 

“He’d never let us go!”

 

“Pop and Brock wouldn’t. OSI has other interests,” Dean said dryly. He set the vial down and started looking through Ruin’s papers, his hands still covered with sleeves.

 

“Afraid of touching something yucky?”

 

“I’m afraid of him knowing we were here. Look around for a hard drive or something. We shouldn’t be down here too long.”

 

“Oh yeah.”

 

Hank covered his own hands and went for the laptop. Password protected. He tried “fungus amongus,” which is what Hank would use as a password if he were an evil scientist making demon ‘shrooms, but no go. Instead, he went to peek in the two other doors. One was a closet full of supplies. The other was a long hallway. Really long.

 

“You got anything else?” Hank asked, shining his little mag-lite down the hall.

 

“Just notes. I wish I could take them. Um.” Dean rocked on his heels for a second, then bumped into the desk. The papers spilled onto the floor.

 

Hank let the door to hall shut. “Like that’s not obvious.”

 

“I mean, they were in a messy pile. Maybe they fell on their own? Anyway, now the cameras can get pictures of them.” Dean leaned over and moved a few of the papers out so they could be seen.

 

“We should get outta here.”

 

“Yeah. Let’s go the back way.”

 

Dean scooped up the fungus vial again, and the two of them headed up the stairs. They froze as they saw a figure looming at the top.

 

“Super run away,” Dean whispered.

 

“Hide, hide,” Hank whispered at the same time.

 

“Okay, I _see you_ two,” a strident voice snapped. “And I can _hear you_ , too. Get your butts up here right now, or I’m sending you straight home, and telling Hatred that you both are _dying_ to get an education in musical theatre, but have been too shy to ask!”

 

Crap. It was Pop.

 

They still went out the back way. Though, there was a gate that exited near the front of the house, and that’s what they took on the short but tension-filled trip home. All the more perilous, since Pop said nothing but “MARCH!” the entire way.

 

When they got into the house, he ordered them to sit on the couch and wait. Then, Dean offered up the vial of fungus, and Pop’s face went _white_.

 

“Wait, is that…?” Shore Leave lit up until Pop glared at him in utter fury.

 

“Go get a containment vessel, would you? Is that decontamination shower ready to go?” Grabbing Dean’s arm roughly, Pop dragged Dean from the room. “Don’t you dare move, Hank!”

 

The look on Shore Leave’s face had been worth it, though. Hank knew they’d gotten something good. For sure.

 

* * *

 

“Geez, what were you kids thinkin’?” Brock bellowed.

 

Hank was still grinning, and Dean was still sopping wet and flushed pink from the scrubbing and rescrubbing. Neither looked particularly repentant. It was gonna be hard to deal with the “I told you sos,” on this one. The cover of harmlessness wasn’t worth the risk the boys had exposed themselves to that night.

 

“Pop said weeks ago that he needed samples, and you still haven’t gotten any!” Hank objected. “And we got you one!”

 

“He’s not wrong, Brock candy,” Shore Leave said.

 

Brock shoved a finger in Shore Leave’s face. “This is not _okay_. You do not _approve_ of this kind of breach of protocol. These boys are _civilians_ who came on this mission as a _favor_!”

 

“I know, I know, but…” Shore Leave gestured at the boys. “You know, they got the goods, and they’re fine.”

 

“They could’ve wrecked our entire cover! It could _still_ get blown, if Ruin figures out someone messed with his lab. And _who knows_ what that shit might do to Dean?”

 

“I feel fine,” Dean said quietly. “Dad scoured me with that decontamination shower like three times, and took my vitals, and my blood.”

 

Hank turned his head towards his brother, and for the first time since Brock had started this tirade, looked uncertain.

 

Brock refocused on the two of them. He knew Rusty had already given it to them, but unable to hold back. He dredged up a story, completely true, from his rookie days at OSI when some dumbass techie had mishandled his samples and rotted from the inside out. Hank looked like he might throw up. Dean’s apologetic deference turned to a scowling anger.

 

Ultimately, he sent them both to their room and stood there in the living room with his hands in his hair.

 

“What…. Do we do… With these kids?” Brock managed eventually.

 

“Lojack ‘em,” Shore Leave suggested.

 

“Maybe Jonas Venture had the right idea, putting a tracker in one of the Doc’s teeth.” Brock went over to the house’s security system and entered the code to lockdown the doors and windows. Then, he headed up to the attic.

 

There, Rusty Venture slouched over a microscope, wearing rubber gloves and a mask over his mouth, occasionally making notes and looking at the printouts of Ruin’s notes that Shore Leave had found almost immediately after the boys had admitted to everything they’d done.

 

“Came close to blowing the cover tonight,” Brock said.

 

Rusty slowly swallowed. “Well, you took care of that, didn’t you?”

 

“What? No, you did.”

 

“I went and got the boys. At worst, I could still come up with some fib about how the boys are freakishly interested with seeing the insides of people’s houses. And they were, when they were about twelve, if you remember.” Rusty straightened up and stretched his back. “No, you covered pretty well at the party. It’s not like anyone would believe a married couple might go into a room alone just to _talk_.”

 

Brock blew some air through his lips. “Look, Doc—“

 

“You’re a little too good at this. I don’t think I’ve ever really seen you do the secret agent thing. Not really. For too long, you were doing your ‘cover’ as my bodyguard, and I really believed _that_ was real. Not just an OSI agent playing his part while he sent Big Daddy Treister reports on me.” Rusty tugged on his rubber gloves. “Terry’s a very different character, isn’t he? I wonder who else you are.”

 

“See, this is why we don’t bring civilians on OPs,” Brock said irritably.

 

“And yet you brought all three of us. You didn’t _need_ any of us. But here we are.” Rusty looked up from his work. “Waiting for the blood results for Dean while I analyze this sample one of your agents could’ve gone in to get tonight instead of my teenage sons.”

 

“You agreed to this!” Brock snapped. “Don’t get self-righteous on me. You agreed to let them come. Because you can’t admit that you’re washed up, and OSI would _never_ tap you on a mission if you didn’t have a senior agent pulling for you!”

 

“You should take the bed tonight, Terry. I’ll be up late.” Rusty turned away from him and back to the samples. The fungus had outgrown its container and was now in separate vessels getting separate analyses done on them.

 

“What, are you kicking me out of bed?” Brock rolled his eyes.

 

“Emphatically the opposite. I’m working. I’ll sleep when I know _my sons_ won’t be dead in the morning.”

 

The Doc said nothing after that. Brock felt anger swelling his chest, and he was almost too tempted to let it overflow, let himself vent all of his frustrations about this OP and their weirdly homophobic neighbors and having to keep Ruin’s attention for an uncomfortable amount of time and the boys not listening to him like they used to…

 

But he didn’t. He went back downstairs, leaving the Doc to stew in his own anger, while Brock tended his own.

 

When he finally lay down, Brock found it hard to sleep with the bed so empty.


	5. Chapter 5

 

“So. I’m alive,” Dean said in a voice that did not celebrate the fact. He strolled up to the kitchen island and perched on a stool.

 

“You’re damn lucky.” Brock poured cereal with a purpose then slid the bowl across the counter to him.

 

“I know.” Dean rubbed his eyes and dunked a few Os into the milk with his spoon. “What are you and Dad fighting about?”

 

“Since when do you call him _Dad_?”

 

“I-I just do sometimes. Don’t evade. Was it us? I’m sorry we did that without getting permission, or even back-up from Shore Leave.”

 

Brock leaned on the counter. “You’re gonna have to trust that we’ve got this under control.”

 

Dean put his spoon down. “That’s still not an answer.”

 

“Just eat your damn breakfast.”

 

“ _No_.” Dean rose and turned to leave the kitchen.

 

Brock ducked around the counter and grabbed his arm. “And since when don’t _you_ listen to orders? What the hell wrong with you?”

 

“What the hell _isn’t_ wrong with me?” Dean snapped.

 

“Yikes,” Hank said from the door. “What’s uh… Brock? Is he possessed by evil fungus?”

 

“He’s possessed by somethin’!”

 

“I’m not _possessed_. God, you’re as bad as Uncle Hatred,” Dean said, wriggling his arm in a vain attempt to free himself.

 

Brock let go.

 

“You were gone for _a year_. What, were we supposed to stay stupid, helpless children until you got back?” Dean rubbed his arm, causing Brock to feel a stab of guilt. “Someone had to make sure Helper worked and meals got made. Someone had to _be there_ for Dad! It’s not our fault if we changed.”

 

“Dean?” Hank watched his brother curiously.

 

Dean just huffed a sigh and stormed out of the room.

 

“Don’t take it personally,” Hank told Brock. “He’s been like that since Halloween.”

 

“What happened at Halloween?” Brock grabbed the ignored bowl of cereal and dumped it out.

 

“Stuff. There was an army of the undead. Oh, and Dean went down to Old Man Potter’s House. He was kinda grumpy before that, but after he spent that night in the house, he’s been downright gloomy.”

 

“Huh? You mean the Potter’s Field? Where all those henchmen got buried?”

 

“Well, whatever it’s called, Dean went into the house right next to it.”

 

Brock thought for moment, then his brows shot up to his hairline. Dean had met _Ben_. That probably meant that Dean _knew_. Shit. It was just his luck that one of the boys had found out when Brock wasn’t even living on the grounds.

 

“Did he tell ya what he saw in there?” Brock asked.

 

“Not really. He said a friend of Pop’s lived there. Can I have some cereal?”

 

Brock nodded and poured him a bowl. “I know it’s not waffles, but uh, your dad is pretty busy now that he has that sample.”

 

Hank winked and pointed at him with Dean’s discarded spoon. “See? The Venture boys don’t trip for biscuits!”

 

“If that means you want me to make you biscuits, you’re outta luck.”

 

“How about coffee?”

 

“God, no.” Brock turned to the fridge. “You can have… chocolate milk.”

 

“Sold!”

 

* * *

 

Brock Samson wouldn’t say his life was entirely unexamined. There were moments, quiet moments, when he sipped coffee and thought, if one thing hadn’t happened, if he’d been more on the ball during this one mission, if he’d been smarter, or faster…

 

He’d done that more about the boys than his own life. Having the back-ups had been something he was grateful for, but it wasn’t a reality he enjoyed, either. For starters, the Doc never reacted well. Oh, after it had happened often enough, he acted like he didn’t care anymore. But Brock hadn’t been trained as a spy just to miss the obvious right in front of him. It broke them both, losing the boys.

 

Other moments, he reflected on the work he did in protecting Doc and his sons. On how different his life might’ve been if he had gone out for baseball instead of a contact sport. On whether he’d actually meant anything by that kiss.

 

Rusty was right. Brock _didn’t_ have to kiss him as part of their cover. It was better for their cover, yes. By now, Carol Anne would have told everyone she’d ever met about the two of them in the study. Even if it had been someone else, they would’ve told a few people, and the act of gossip would solidify their place in the neighborhood, whether people accepted that kind of relationship or not.

 

It was a good move, logically.  But logic had only been part of his decision to lean in, if Brock were honest. That should be easier to admit, now that Brock was technically Rusty’s partner rather than his bodyguard. You didn’t get involved with your charge when on bodyguard duty, firstly because you’d get distracted, but just as importantly because you’d be taking advantage of someone who _needed you_ in their life and would automatically risk more than you if they wanted to step away. Apart from Rusty Venture’s many surface flaws, that reason—how Brock would be taking advantage, how Myra _had_ taken advantage (regardless of whatever the Doc had said to her after the fact)—it was no small hurdle.

 

And so, Brock just didn’t think about it. He put it away because it was something they just didn’t explore. They didn’t talk about the boys dying. They didn’t talk about those times they were so close they could feel one another’s hearts beating. As clingy as Rusty could be, Brock hadn’t ever considered that Rusty might really want something like that anyway. He was awkward as it was humanly possible to be with women, but he’d never mentioned that he might be interested in men… He also rarely if ever said anything negative about it.

 

Thus, Brock sipped his coffee on the porch, wondering, turning the night before over in his mind. Was Rusty angry because Brock had made things weird? Or was he angry because that kiss had stirred something, and he felt like Brock had just been faking?

 

_Was_ he just faking?

 

“Good afternoon,” sang a woman from the sidewalk.

 

Brock didn’t recognize her from the party the night before. She had a black braid down her back and wore a red sports bra and loose, waist-length sweater over yoga pants. She looked like she’d just wandered from a Pilates class.

 

“Afternoon,” Brock said. “You live in the neighborhood.”

 

“Not far from here, actually. I’m on the other side of the block. I’m Celeste Donovan.” Celeste strolled up the walkway and hovered just on the edge of the porch stairs. “I heard from Wendy that we had some new people in the neighborhood and thought I’d come over for a hello.”

 

She smiled, her rosy lips curving impishly. “How are you liking the neighborhood so far?”

 

“Not too bad. Everyone’s real friendly.” Brock gave her a smile in return.

 

This woman was trouble. She exuded that same energy that Mol did. Just effortless _sex_ and _control_.

 

“Dunno why, but I always imagined you’d be older,” Brock said as he rose to come shake her hand. “I’m Terry Smith. I’d bring my husband out here, but he had a late night.”

 

“Hm. I’m _sure_.” She paused, meeting his eye with a boldness that was almost unnerving. What did she mean by _that_? “Wendy’s parties can definitely go on and on. I had an obligation last night, or I would’ve attended.”

 

“Well, we had to get home early. The boys ended up making a mess, and Sam wasn’t too thrilled with them.”

 

“It must be a challenge these days raising a couple of teenagers. The things they get up to, right?” Celeste tilted her head and smiled again, just slightly showing her unnaturally white teeth.

 

_Trouble_. And no wedding ring.

 

“So did your husband make it last night? I don’t think I met a Donovan, but we did meet a bunch of folks last night.”

 

“Oh, no husband. Not anymore.” Her smile didn’t falter. She let her eyes drift down to take in Brock’s snug shirt and blue jeans.

 

God. Not long ago, Brock would’ve been all over this woman. Husband or not. Trouble or not.

 

“Would you like some coffee?” he offered.

 

“Maybe some other time.” Her lips curled to the side. “I have one of those fancy espresso machines. Maybe you and your Sam can come over. You can even bring the boys, if they can’t be trusted to stay in the house.”

 

“Bad idea. The one goes insane if you give him coffee. But I’ll ask Sam when he gets up and give you call, if you’d like.”

 

Brock patted himself looking for a pen, but Celeste seemed to summon one from the ether and took his hand in hers to write on it.

 

“Here we go,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Call me anytime, Terry. I can’t wait to have you two over.”

 

Even knowing that she had some ulterior motive, Brock felt his body responding to her casual confidence and implicit availability. Her touch was deceptively gentle, but he could see the firm leg muscles. She slipped the pen into his pocket, and then took three steps backward before turning to walk away. Her ass was high and firm, well represented in her yoga pants.

 

Brock let out a slow breath. Damn. He looked down at the number written on his hand. Also, fuck. He was going to have to keep that number for evidence. The Doc would not be thrilled.

 

He took the pen out of his pocket, snapped it in half with his thumb, and dropped it on the lawn.

 

* * *

 

Dean leaned back against the wall behind the bunk bed. He still didn’t like it. Even after weeks of getting used to the creaking of the bed and the sounds of Hank going up and down the ladder, the feeling of walls around him as he slept still made him feel shut in and trapped. At the moment, though, he wasn’t trying to sleep. He was trying to read (ineffectively), and going outside to do so would mean running into his father or his former bodyguard, and he didn’t particularly want to talk to either.

 

He didn’t know how Hank did it. Mouthing off. Just, like, casually. Dean didn’t seem to be able to stop himself once he started, and he always felt bad afterward.

 

When he heard the rap on the door, he looked up in confusion. Hank wouldn’t knock. His dad had stopped trying to come into Dean’s room a few months ago. Shore Leave had never actively sought them out until last night and seemed to distain Dean’s very existence.

 

“Yes?” Dean set his book in his lap.

 

Brock opened the door. “Hey.”

 

“Hi.” Dean swallowed.

 

“Look, we need to talk.” Brock pulled a chair over to the bed.

 

“I’m sorry about this morning.”

 

Brock’s brows raised. “Uh, that’s… That’s okay. I need to ask you more about your conversation with Mrs. Donovan.”

 

Dean blinked. “Wait... what?”

 

“You said you talked to her. At her house? Anything you can tell me.”

 

Dean tilted his head to the side and frowned. “Um…”

 

“Did you start the conversation, or did she?”

 

Dean thought for a moment. “She did. I was walking by her garden. She said hello, and I came over… She asked what I was reading, and… if I lived in the neighborhood. I told her I just moved in with my dads.”

 

“Was she a little tall? Not super tall, but a bit, long black hair?”

 

“Yes.” Dean arched a brow.

 

“Then what? Did she keep questioning you about your cover?”

 

“It just felt like we were talking… But I stuck to the list of things to say. And I asked her questions, too.”

 

“About the beetles?”

 

“Well, Dad mentioned it when you were talking about what they’d said in the front office.” Dean pursued his lips as he tried to remember exactly what she’d said. “I asked if the office had been able to send someone to take care of it, and she smiled and said, ‘We had some trouble with the beetles at first, but everything’s perfect now.’”

 

“Huh.”

 

“Yeah, I didn’t know why she was smiling like that. She was a little weird, to be honest, or I thought so. But I don’t actually have much experience with adult women outside of Myra and Dr. Mrs. The Monarch.”

 

Brock crossed his arms. “I just met her outside. She was definitely off. Either she’s some kind of black widow in the neighborhood, or… Dunno.”

 

Dean scooted forward. “Is she a villain, too?”

 

“Maybe. We might’ve stumbled onto a stealth Malice here.” Brock put his hands on his knees. “What depressing crap you reading now?”

 

Dean lifted the book so Brock could see the bright cover. “ _The Perks of Being a Wallflower_. It’s about a kid in high school. My brain was starting to hurt from all the literature.”

 

“Where do you even keep getting these?” Brock took the book and glanced at the back.

 

Dean felt his cheeks redden as Brock read. “Grandpop had a decent library. Not that anyone else uses it. I brought most of the lit from that, and OSI packed a bunch of YA books like this one.”

 

Brock frowned as he handed the book back to Dean. He seemed to want to say something, but then thought better of it. “Just you hold tight until we know what’s goin’ on, hm? And don’t go wandering out without backup.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Really okay? As in you’ll _listen_ this time, or that fake okay, where you and Hank go out anyway, even though it’s twice as dangerous now?”

 

Dean bit back a sharp reply. But of course, Brock saw the look on his face. He wasn’t leaving, though. Brock was harder to get to back off than his dad or Uncle Hatred. But at least he listen to the words when Dean bothered to say them. He didn’t know if that was a secret agent thing or… just Brock.

 

“I’ll tell Hank we have to stick close.”

 

“There we go.” Brock gave him a sideways smile and headed back out. “You sure you wanna spend the afternoon in here? It’s so dark and claustrophobic. You’re gonna mess up your eyes.”

 

“I think the glasses are probably a foregone conclusion at this point.”

 

“You definitely read too much,” Brock said. But he said it with his smile growing and a little nod.

 

It would be better if people in their family could actually talk about things, or really apologize. But maybe this was okay. Dean got up to see where his brother had gone off to. Hopefully, he wasn’t already knee-deep into trouble.

 

* * *

 

Rusty hadn’t even noticed Brock enter the attic. He was so consumed with studying his analysis and the notes that OSI had sent from what they had on Impossible’s old fungus recipe. After looking up and just staring for a moment, he swiftly turned his head back to the notes in front of him and blanked.

 

“What do you think we’re gonna find on some housewife?” Shore Leave asked.

 

“Housewidow. Or so she says. Just find out who that woman is. We’ll go from there,” Brock said.

 

Rusty could hear Brock’s heavy footsteps coming toward him. How did this man ever manage to do spy work, with those enormous clown feet of his?

 

“Doc.”

 

Rusty hesitated for a moment, then lifted his head. “Hm? Sorry. Just absorbed here. Why can’t Impossible ever make a cure for anything he creates?”

 

“Pfft. Probably because he means for everyone who comes into contact with it to die.”

 

That was probably exactly it. Rusty sat back, pulled his mask down, and plastered on a fake smile. “What can I help you with?”

 

Brock’s frown deepened, suggesting that Rusty wasn’t fooling him, but was managing to irritate him.

 

Good enough.

 

“Thinkin’ you’re right about sending the boys outta here.”

 

“You’re afraid of a woman who must spend her whole day gardening?”

 

“If you’d met her, you’d get it.”

 

“She seemed nice enough when she was out there talking to you an hour ago.”

 

Brock pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know what? Enough. I’m agreeing with you, _ass_!”

 

Rusty looked down at his arm. He’d washed the ink from Donovan’s pen off. Probably a good thing, if she were in fact evil. “C’mere.” Rusty pulled out a syringe.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Checking how smart she is. Or, checking how badly she wants to get rid of us. Depends on what turns up.”

 

Brock sighed in annoyance, but pulled up a chair and held out his arm. Rusty stuck the needle in.

 

“Hey!”

 

“Don’t be a baby.”

 

“You two are just _adorable_ ,” Shore Leave sang from his station.

 

“No we’re not,” Rusty said, at the same time Brock said, “Shut the fuck up.”

 

“Language,” Rusty admonished.

 

“What, I’m gonna get nailed for sailor talk in front of _Shore Leave_?” Brock groused.

 

“I was actually in the Navy, y’know.” Shore Leave looked back at them and grinned. “And this little Boston marriage you two have going on doesn’t faze me in the slightest. But you should try to either tone it down or work it into the cover.”

 

“We’ve been in the house all day. What is anyone going to _see_?” Rusty set the syringe down and reached for the first aid kit, but Brock had already opened it and pressed a cotton ball to the wound. “Just let me get that.”

 

“And let you amputate me? Nope.”

 

“I’m not going to amputate you!” Rusty grabbed the bandage and wound it carefully around Brock’s arm. “See?”

 

Brock eyed him. “She said she wanted us all over for coffee.”

 

“Wouldn’t that be lovely,” Rusty said sarcastically. He pinned the bandage and moved back to his station and grabbed a clean vial, which he deposited the blood into, and a clean slide, which he added a drop to before looking in it with his microscope.

 

“You really think she’d just flat out poison me?”

 

“Depends on what her end game is, I guess. Maybe her end game is to fuck you.”

 

Shore Leave gasped.

 

“Oh, he can do it, but I can’t?” Rusty snapped.

 

“My ears are on fire, ya’ll.”

 

Brock grabbed a pillow from the cot where Shore Leave had been sleeping and smacked him with it.

 

“I was wrong. Doing an OP with you two is a barrel of fun,” Shore Leave teased.

 

“I’m going to move this lab down to the basement,” Rusty threatened.

 

“Okay, so about the boys,” Brock said a bit loudly.

 

Rusty sighed.

 

“Y’know, it’s not so much what the neighbors see, sometimes, as what they hear. Including you two yelling at the kids and fighting at night,” Shore Leave pointed out.

 

Brock and Rusty looked at each other.

 

Rusty shrugged. “Isn’t that pretty normal for a married couple?”

 

“He’s not wrong on that one,” Brock agreed.

 

“You two have a grim view of marriage.” Shore Leave rose and put his pillow back in place. “Don’t get sloppy with those samples, Mr. Ventooore.” He drew the world out long like “couture.” “I’d rather not wake up choking on spores.”

 

“I’m not a hack. I’m not going to leak the samples.” Rusty looked over the ridiculously small area he had to work in. He couldn’t promise an accident wouldn’t happen, but if he released it on the population, it wouldn’t be any measurably different than if Ruin did it. “Maybe we _should_ move this down to the basement.”

 

He set the test on Brock’s blood sample up before they got started, and thus the results were done by the time Brock had hauled the heavier field equipment downstairs. Rusty stood, taking a moment to glance over them.

 

“Is he dying?” Shore Leave asked, causing Rusty to jump.

 

“What? _No_. He’s fine.”

 

“Just means she’s playing it close to the chest,” Brock said. “It was good to test, anyway. Better to be careful.”

 

“Yeah.” Rusty continued to stare at the print out, then he pushed his glasses up, feeling his face flushing and his heart pounding. How stupid would it have been for Brock to let that woman poison him? He probably faced dozens of risks like that daily at his new job.

 

“Are _you_ dying?” Shore Leave asked.

 

“No.” Rusty took in a deep breath and peered out the small attic window. It was dark out. He’d been up here most of the day. Though, he’d started his day a bit late. “We need to get the boys some dinner.”

 

“I can handle it,” Shore Leave offered.

 

“Don’t bother. I need to let those tests finish up before I can analyze them, and it won’t do any good to stay up here breathing them until they can be finished and moved.” Rusty discarded his mask on the table he’d be working at and headed for the stairs.

 

“Are you gonna tell me why you two are in such a bad mood?” Shore Leave said a moment later.

 

Rusty hesitated by the stairs, but of course, Brock hesitated as well, waiting for Rusty’s footsteps. So he just descended. He needed some damn air.

 

* * *

 

“Well?” Shore Leave said again.

 

Brock held his hand up, listening. When he was sure the Doc had actually left, he muttered, “I made it weird.”

 

“It’s a gift, with you, I swear. What did you make weird, hm?”

 

“I, uh, kissed him at the party last night. He’s not too happy about that.” Brock shook his head and kept his eyes on the window. “It was for the cover, and I know he understands that, but… This is why we can’t bring civilians along. I dunno what I was thinkin’.”

 

“Obviously, you wanted to spend time with your kids,” Shore Leave said. “And this was the best way to get your ex to let it happen.”

 

“He’s not my ex,” Brock objected. “Well, ex- _employer_ , but not the way you’re makin’ it out to be!”

 

“Whatever you say, Brock of Love.” Shore Leave pursed his lips into a kiss-face. “But it sounds to me that he wasn’t _unhappy_ by that kiss. Mayhaps you covered _too_ well.”

 

“Maybe it’s _you_ we shouldn’t bring along,” Brock said.

 

“They tried that Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell crap on me in old OSI. Nothin’ doin’ now, buddy.”

 

Brock made a noise. “Who had to _ask_? Pretty sure every person knows the second they walk into OSI headquarters.”

 

“Ha ha.”

 

Brock sat in Rusty’s chair and looked over the papers. There were so many. He’d been at this for hours. That level of focus either meant that he was incredibly worried, or, more likely, incredibly determined to avoid Brock. Maybe both.

 

“I don’t come off that way,” Brock said.

 

“Of course not, my love. You’re a big strapping man,” Shore Leave cooed, returning to his station. “Thank god he’ll be down in the basement now.”

 

“No, I mean, I’m asking. We got into this because, like _always_ , people assumed the Doc and I were… ‘a couple.’” Brock grimaced. “You said you and I together would be _obvious_. People don’t assume the Doc’s _that way_ when he’s on his own. There’s a common denominator there.”

 

“Honey, you’ve gotta stop saying ‘that way.’”

 

Brock cleared his throat. “Yeah, okay. You’re right.”

 

“Anyway, yes, _sometimes_ you do seem a bit Brock Hudson—“

 

Brock’s jaw tightened.

 

“But you’re more of a mirror. You reflect what people around you expect to see, ‘cause you don’t usually give them much to work with.” Shore Leave leaned back in his chair. “So when I say that you and _I_ might be a believable couple, that’s other people’s expectations, because as you so delicately put it, _I am obvious_. And the straights assume ‘gay by association.’ I set every closet I ever entered on fire, and you and I get along, so people assume.”

 

Brock let out a sigh.

 

“But you and Venture?” Shore Leave shook his head. “You share your life with someone for twenty years, and people will see that familiarity. They maaaay also see you two with your hands on each other. Or the way you look at each other.”

 

“I don’t—“

 

“If you don’t, he _does_. Straight guys don’t get jealous that their fake boyfriend talked to a hot chick.”

 

Brock sat with that for a moment, then shook his head. “Doc’s not gay.”

 

“Those aren’t the only two options, sweetheart.”

 

Slowly, Brock felt his brows lifting. He wasn’t _dense_. Amber had girlfriends in the past (Headshot had been a bit free lately in telling people about that). There was whatever was going on between The Monarch, his wife, and Gary. He didn’t know why he was so determined to blindly avoid that possibility.

 

Shore Leave rolled his chair over to Brock. “Y’just gotta tell him. It’s worse when you avoid it. Trust me. I went through this with Al.”

 

“You’re _dating_ Al now.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“What do you think I’m gonna tell him?” Brock sputtered. “We only kissed the once, and it was part of the damn cover!”

 

“You don’t gotta yell.” Shore Leave shoved his arm. “And did you kiss him because of the cover, or was the cover the reason you _could_ kiss him?”

 

Brock pulled back and stormed toward the stairs.

 

“Save me some dinner!” Shore Leave called.

 

“Fuck you!” Brock called back.


	6. Chapter 6

Three more days passed, and so did quite a few awkward meals. For most of them, one or the other of the “Smiths” found a reason to be absent, usually claiming to work on the investigation or the anti-fungal agent. The boys, oddly, managed to stick close to the house. Rusty couldn’t credit it, but somehow, Hank seemed proud enough of getting the sample to cease any undercover activities and, thankfully, the weird detective talk.

 

At least for the time being. That morning, Amber pulled up in a fresh car registered to Annie Smith to pick up the boys.

 

“Ohhh, mornin’, sweethearts!” she called as she got out of the car. Her wig was back, but now it was curly and pulled into pigtails. Presumably, as Brock’s sister.

 

Actually, Rusty could believe that, with the curls and the icy blue eyes. He could probably tell the neighbors that Annie was Terry’s twin sister. Ridiculously attractive, tall, Midwestern blonds wearing tight jeans. (Amber had dropped the mom-jeans and now had some low enough to tell that she probably shaved down there.)

 

“Anne!” Rusty came out to meet her on the sidewalk, and she enveloped him in a hug. It was nice after his last few days of self-induced isolation. He’d had more one-on-one time with that damned fungus than the rest of his family.

 

She kept her arm around his shoulders as they walked toward the house where the boys were putting together a few things to make it look like they’d be going out of town for a week. Hopefully, that would be good enough for the time being. Rusty had told Shore Leave they should all go on a “vacation” and come back in with the anti-fungal completed to knock Ruin to his knees.

 

General Gathers said no. With a side of complaint that a real agent wouldn’t be bitching about pulling out early. So there they stayed, with permission to get the boys out of the way until HQ could determine who Mrs. Donovan really was.

 

Rusty had no intention of their returning, but that was a fight for another day.

 

Hank bounded out with a duffle bag. “Hiya!”

 

“Hey, Henry!” Amber let Rusty go and hugged Hank tightly. “It’s good to see you again!”

 

The little family reunion on the front lawn came together almost effortlessly. Brock came out in front of Dean, who turned to say something, with wide-eyed concern. Whatever Brock said caused Dean to give him a hug around the chest (which was about as high as either boy could reach). Brock flushed a bit and put his hand on Dean’s head, then rubbed his back a little before Dean slipped away again and ran off the porch with his duffle.

 

“Hi, Aunt Annie!”

 

Rusty caught Brock’s eye, intending to share a look about the boys, before remembering that they were barely talking. Brock seemed to remember that a second after giving Rusty a smile.

 

Amber gave both of the boys hugs and some gushing attention, then shooed them to the car and went inside. “Whew. Long OP, huh? How’s it going here?”

 

“Just fabulous,” Rusty said.

 

Brock gave him an odd look. “Huh. Well, Doc’s figured out what the fungus is for. Any word from our techs on the anti-fungal?”

 

“I’m working on that, too,” Rusty objected.

 

“I _know that_ ,” Brock growled, “but at HQ there are a hundred more of them, and they have a bigger lab. They should be able to come up with something to kill it in like, half an hour!”

 

“Ohhh, it _is_ going fabulous here.” Amber smirked and crossed her arms. “Headshot and I went undercover once for three months before he specialized. I swear to God, he ended up with a black eye. He still complains about it.”

 

“Well, that sounds healthy,” Rusty drawled.

 

“Just don’t start tearing each other apart,” Amber advised. “Ya’ll are in this together. Anyway, he’s right. Our techs should’ve come up with an anti-fungal by now, but Gathers only got a few of ‘em on the project.”

 

“He’ll be sorry when North America is a wasteland,” Rusty said.

 

“What’s the hold up with this?” Brock said. “We tried to canvas the area; it didn’t work. We come in here undercover. No backup besides Shore Leave. He even pulled you back. Have you talked to him? Why so light on this one?”

 

Amber tapped her foot and looked out the window where the boys were loitering around her car. “Seems like Ruin did work with one of ours for a while.”

 

“Are you serious?” Rusty said.

 

“Why didn’t that come in our intel?” Brock demanded.

 

“It’s kind of a big deal…” Amber cringed. “Ruin worked part time with Dr. Superlative in Austin, but he got turned down for tenure.”

 

“We gathered that one. No one hates universities more than failed professors and current grad students,” Rusty said.

 

“Yeah… but he probably got the data for the fungus from us, originally. And it all happened under Triester, who a lot of the agents are still pretty loyal to. So we’re treadin’ kinda lightly,” Amber admitted. “Gathers doesn’t want too many people on it.”

 

“You think your agents assumed Triester didn’t ever make a mistake? Gathers ran circles around him,” Rusty said. “Hatred stole secrets from OSI before defecting to the Guild, which Triester didn’t even believe existed, _and_ he booted a bunch of agents just for being gay, and accepted Hatred back into the fold um, just _because_.”

 

Brock clucked his tongue.

 

“He’s not wrong, sugar.” Amber shrugged. “All o’that’s true, but things are still touchy at Headquarters. Ya can’t heal what went down between Triester, the Guild inside agents, and Gathers just like that.”

 

“Maybe not. But you can’t heal a country ripped apart by a virulent fungus just like that either,” Rusty said.

 

Brock bit back a laugh. “We’ll take care of it. And thanks for tellin’ us what’s going on. I don’t care if I’m short-staffed; I just need all the info.”

 

“Yeah. Well, I’ll put a bug in his ear about getting a few more on deck as soon as week can. Just to be ready to swoop in if we need to,” Amber said. “We’ve got more of the SPHINX crew coming back in from the field. It’ll help a lot.”

 

“True. Good. We may need it. As it turns out, we’ve got at least one other person of interest in the neighborhood,” Brock said. “Some person who doesn’t even exist, walking around like a villainous Instagram model.”

 

“Huh. I didn’t hear that part.”

 

Rusty checked the window once more to see Carol Anne talking with Hank and went outside so Brock and Amber could keep talking shop while he made sure this old bat didn’t screw their cover beyond repair.

 

“Morning,” Rusty said.

 

“Oh! I was just talking with your boys about their trip!” Carol Anne clapped her hands together and walked around the car. “That sister-in-law of yours is so lovely! I hope I get to talk to her before she leaves.”

 

“She and her brother are just catching up.”

 

“I’m sure. But it’s good for you two, hm? Getting the boys out of the house for a bit?” Carol Anne waggled her brows.

 

Rusty opened his mouth and blinked a few times. “Well, uh…”

 

“Oh, right! Sorry. Wendy said you were the shy one about that!”

 

Rusty folded his arms tightly over himself. “It’s- Um, it’s fine. It’s just that where I grew up—Terry, too, actually—it wasn’t the most open-minded place. Not like here.”

 

“I hope you can start to feel like the whole neighborhood is your family. We’re all so close,” Carol Anne said effusively.

 

“I’m not sure I’d talk about what Terry and I do together with my family.”

 

“Yeah, that would be weird.” Hank slid over the hood of the car.

 

“It’s not like they don’t overshare with _us_ ,” Dean muttered. “I think it would only be _fair_ if you did it back.”

 

“I don’t have the wherewithal to hear what they have to say about any of this,” Rusty said.

 

Hank put his arm around him and sighed. “Well, kid. We’ve headin’ outta town for a few. Gonna hit the road, and spread some wild oats—“

 

“You’d better not.”

 

“We’ve done all we can to guide the both of yous. Make sure you use condoms!”

  
Rusty cleared his throat pointedly and glared at Hank, who just wagged his finger in Rusty’s face.

 

“I don’t wanna come home to find you pregnant!”

 

“ _Excuse me?!_ ”

 

Carol Anne, for once in her life, was speechless.

 

“C’mon!” Brock said from the porch. “Quit buggin’ your dad!”

 

“In the car, boys!” Amber yelled. (Maybe, hollered.)

 

A few minutes later, and Carol Anne was off their lawn, and Amber and the boys were back in the car and on their way out. A bit of weight was lifted from his shoulders, but not much. He looked up at the sky and sighed heavily.

 

It was jarring when Brock put his hand around Rusty’s shoulders and started to guide him back to the house. Rusty’s stomach tensed. Of course, he was only doing this because they were in plain view of the rest of the neighborhood.

 

“They’ll be fine. I swear. Okay?” Brock said quietly. “Amber knows what she’s doing.”

 

Rusty didn’t know what to say. Especially not out here. So he waited until the door was closed to pull away and put several paces between them.

 

“What is your _deal_?” Brock demanded.

 

Rusty threw a hand back casually. “I have work to do.”

 

“You have never in _your life_ worked this hard for this long on _anything_.”

 

“That’s nice. That’s just _wonderful_! So why don’t I just _do that_ so you can fix his huge mess your precious OSI caused and flit off to another part of the globe for your amazing adventures.”

 

“What are you even talking about? That’s my job!”

 

“Yep. It’s your _job_. Wouldn’t want to keep you from it!”

 

Brock’s chest swelled up like he was really about to roar, but Shore Leave came running down the stairs, hands up.

 

“Hot news!”

 

The two of them turned to look at him.

 

Shore Leave put his hand on his hip. “Psych. I just came down here because you idiots are going to blow our cover if you’re making a racket of the non-sexual kind the moment your kids leave the house.”

 

Rusty sucked in his cheeks and walked straight into the bedroom. He grabbed the headboard and started banging it against the wall. When Brock and Shore Leave came in, Rusty leaned toward the covered window and started yelling:

 

“AH! AH! AH! TERRENCE!” He met Brock’s eye and glared. “OH, GOD! OH, GOD! OH, GOD!”

 

Brock stalked over to the bed and hit the wall harder and let out the bellow he’d suppressed a minute ago. “AHHHHHHH! Take it! YOU TAKE IT!”

 

Rusty let out a long, loud moan. Brock’s face was already reddening from the screaming, but it seemed as though they grew a bit redder in response to the noises Rusty was making.

 

Rusty let go of the headboard. He drew in a breath and swallowed.

 

“Yeah, baby, yeah,” he deadpanned to Brock. “You drilled me _so good_.”

 

They were silent for several minutes, staring at one another, the hostility growing unchecked in the air.

 

Shore Leave cackled. “Jesus Christ, this is the best OP I’ve ever been on.”

 

“Get fuck outta here, _Josh_ ,” Brock said.

 

Rusty choked on a laugh.

 

“Oh, shut up,” Shore Leave said. “Like ‘Thaddeus’ is a great name. That’s what an old man names his hairless cat.”

 

Rusty couldn’t contain himself. He started laughing hysterically and sat back on the bed. Wiping his eyes, he saw that Shore Leave had left, and Brock moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

 

“Gotta say. Never had _that_ reaction after sex before,” he said.

 

Rusty snorted. “I have.”

 

“Well, when we have sexual relations with _lunatics_ , we can only blame ourselves when they _laugh_.”

 

Rusty slumped over. They hadn’t been on this bed together in over a week. A damn week. This trip, as much as it was a mission, had probably been Rusty’s last opportunity to spend time with Brock. But he ruined it, just like he ruined every other relationship.

 

“I was kiddin’ about that. I didn’t mean to bring her up,” Brock said.

 

“No. It was funny. I was just thinking.” He paused. “I’m not very good at the undercover thing.”

 

Brock shook his head. “That’s not it. We don’t do undercover with people we’re too close to. It’s a bad strategy. The benefits of knowing each other? Long term, they turn to vulnerabilities.”

 

“Gathers designed the OP with you and the boys. You’ve known them their entire lives.”

 

“He designed the OP with the boys, Amber, and Ferrous. I wasn’t part of the plan,” Brock admitted. “That was me, overriding sense and convincing Gathers it would work. He’s real pissed at me. They’ve got some skills, the boys. If they had a bit of training, they could be agents… I just don’t like the idea of them running this dangerous shit without me there to protect ‘em.”

 

“Fair enough. Can’t say I ever wanted them on this to begin with.” Rusty folded his hands. “Ever gotten into a screaming match and then faked sex on an OP before?”

 

Brock chuckled. “Nope. New one.”

 

“Good to be able to surprise each other after all these years, right?”

 

“Hm. Yep.”

 

Brock moved from the foot of the bed to the side where Rusty was sitting. He reached over, as Rusty looked on questioningly, and took one of Rusty’s hands in his own. They were so large, dwarfing the spidery, thin fingers, but at the same time, he held it gently, like it was something fragile.

 

Rusty screwed his brows together and looked up at Brock in bafflement. He couldn’t begin to put together what Brock was trying to do.

 

“What…?” Rusty started.

 

Brock said nothing for a long time. Normally impatient, Rusty found the moment expanding as he waited, growing ever more anxious as the seconds ticked by. What did Brock want from him? Rusty looked back to see if the shades at the window had been knocked open or something, but they were well-closed.

 

“I don’t understand,” Rusty said.

 

“When the boys were leaving the house just now, Dean… He asked me to look out for you. He asked me not to hurt you.”

 

Rusty nodded. “He’s always been sensitive. He can’t stand it when we fight.”

 

“Yeah, but… Shut up for a minute, okay?”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“I uh… You were right that I didn’t have to kiss you because of our cover. I should’ve been more professional, and uh…”

 

Rusty slipped his hand out of Brock’s. “It’s fine. Like you said, we’ve known each other for years. What’s some swapped spit between old hands like us?”

 

“ _Listen_. I shouldn’t use our cover like that. It was the safest thing for me, but it wasn’t fair to you to surprise ya like that.”

 

Rusty’s stomach was starting to feel unsteady. It was starting to feel remarkably tingly, and his throat tight, and his face hot. It was starting to feel like Brock was apologizing for having kissed him because he _knew_ …

 

“It’s fine, Brock. Like I said, we… we’ve known each other forever.” Rusty inched away on the bed.

 

Brock had been reaching for him again and now dropped his hand. “It didn’t bother you?”

 

“No!” Rusty waved the thought away. “It’s _nothing_. I’m sure you’ve done that with other operatives when the situation called for it. Whatever makes the job _easier_. It’s fine.”

 

Brock’s face grew stern and tight, and he raked his eyes over Rusty like he was using his eyes as a portable MRI. He moved his hand toward Rusty’s face, and Rusty suspected this was another of his comforting gestures, where he rubbed his forehead or temples, trying to get him to calm down. And Rusty closed his eyes.

 

But Brock didn’t rub his forehead. Brock’s hand settled gently cupping his cheek and the side of his head, cradling him with the utmost care before, unexpectedly, his lips touched Rusty’s.

 

Immediately, Rusty opened his eyes and pulled back, reading uncertainty on Brock’s face, and a flush of his own. His heart trying to jack-hammer out of his chest, Rusty said, “There’s no one here.”

 

“Yeah,” Brock said, as though it should be obvious.

 

No one there. Not for the hand holding. Not for the kiss. Then, what…?

 

“Brock…”

 

“Tell me to stop.” Brock leaned in again, just as he, in his way, urged Rusty to put an end to this. To be the one to decide that nothing happened between them, nothing changed between them.

 

Rusty did no such thing.

 

The next meeting of their lips started almost gentle, but grew into great, hungry kisses. Ravenous kisses, demanding and grasping for more each time they came together. Brock held him so firmly Rusty knew he’d have a bruise on his back, and he couldn’t care at all. He couldn’t think, either, not enough to figure out why this was happening, and definitely not enough to push Brock away and push this thing he felt back down into the depths of his mind where it belonged. Honestly, he knew if he thought about it, pushing it away would be a reflex, and instinct of self-protection, and not what he wanted.

 

Because what he _wanted_ was Brock pulling his sweater off of him, manhandling his pale skin with his meaty paws, making little noises as he devoured his way along Rusty’s neck and collarbone. He wanted to be making a real moan, embarrassingly unsteady, and holding onto Brock’s shoulders for dear life. He wanted their lips to meet again, with both of Rusty’s hands grabbing the sides of Brock’s face and pushing his fingers into Brock’s thick hair, needy and possessive and unrelenting. He wanted to feel Brock’s goddamn horsecock hard and threatening against his thigh in a moment so freaking surreal that Rusty let out a little yelp of surprise.

 

And shockingly, he got all of that. Plus, a muttered apology about that horsecock.

 

They parted just a little at that, and Rusty didn’t know whether he should be the one to apologize or not, but he just said, “You startled me. For a minute there, I thought OSI had you carrying a Glock.”

 

Brock laughed. “You know I don’t like guns much.”

 

“Hence, my shock. Well, that and… other reasons. What is this?” Rusty felt his heart inching into his throat.

 

“Kissing, mostly.”

 

“Alone? In our room?” Rusty couldn’t stop shaking his head. “I don’t get it.”

 

“I don’t either,” Brock admitted. “But… I wanted to do it.”

 

Rusty stilled, somewhat unable to believe the last few minutes no matter what Brock said, and then reached up to touch Brock’s chest experimentally. He could remember dozens of times being this undressed, or more, while this close to Brock. He remembered accepting Brock’s protection, and being rejected for a request to be held, and being lifted and carried around. Sometimes like luggage, sometimes more gently. Brock’s hand covered his, and their eyes met again.

 

“Why?” was all Rusty managed.

 

Brock rolled his eyes. “I dunno. Why do you let me?”

 

“Have you _seen_ yourself?”

 

“Oh, I’m just a piece of meat to you?” Brock was joking now. It was easier to joke than deal with the enormity of this. “I’d buy that, if you hadn’t been surrounded by over-muscled brick-heads your whole life.”

 

“You’re mistaking proximity for access. _You_ never wanted this before now.”

 

“Never thought about it. Never let myself.” Brock sat up straight and shrugged. “And it was complicated, anyway. Because I had a responsibility to you and the boys. Because of what Myra did.”

 

“So… Today, you just let yourself? Just like that?”

 

Brock’s fingers tightened around his, and Rusty found it a little hard to breathe. Then, his big arm wrapped around Rusty’s shoulders and brought him close.

 

“I don’t think there was a damn thing sudden about this. Not after all these years.” Brock laughed softly. “God, your heart’s poundin’ like crazy. You think I’m gonna hurt ya?”

 

“Of course not… Maybe,” Rusty said. “Maybe the fungus has done something to your brain. Somewhere in the prefrontal cortex, and it’s hindering your decision-making abilities.”

 

“I thought this version killed off plants. Not a vegetable here.”

 

“I… uh.”

 

Swallowing was a nearly impossible task. Rusty looked down and licked his lips. He was frozen. Just frozen. Of all the things that had happened in his life, when had he last locked up like this?

 

* * *

 

When the boys were taking their things out to the car, Dean had come up to Brock on the porch and quietly pleaded, “Um, look out for Dad, okay? And…” He looked away for a moment, then up at Brock as he rattled out quickly: “Don’t hurt ‘im. He loves you.”

 

It was tremendously unlikely that Rusty Venture had openly admitted to anything like that. But the boys had keen eyes. They got into places. They saw things they weren’t supposed to see.

 

Brock held Rusty in his arms, unsure what to make of the tension pulling his muscles tight and making him shake just a little. But he wasn’t pulling away. He wasn’t fighting it. He was just… stuck.

 

“Take it easy, Doc.”

 

“I-I’m easy. I’m…”

 

Brock felt fondness warming his chest. He leaned down and kissed the crown of Rusty’s head. He let out a noise of protest and reached up to his head.

 

“At some point, I’m gonna have to stop seeing what I can get away with, and actually get a confirmation from you that you want it,” Brock pointed out. “And sayin’ I’m attractive don’t count.”

 

Rusty let out a heavy sigh. “You sure found a good way to shut me up.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

“ _You_ know….” Rusty looked up at the ceiling with so much irritation that Brock was tempted to laugh. “You know that I’ve always…” He moved a hand anxiously over the smooth dome of his head. “Right? I mean, the thing you said about… It’s just not a possibility, so you don’t talk about it. Like other things that… hurt.”

 

Gently Brock rubbed his back. “You’ve survived a hell of a lot. Maybe you’ll survive me, too.”

 

“I don’t need to _survive_ you. You’re the one who keeps me _breathing_.”

 

This time as Brock kissed Rusty, it was calm and slow. Savoring the moment and the feel of one another. No illicit, hidden touches or glancing grasps. He moved his hands up Rusty’s back and squeezed his shoulders. Rusty leaned into Brock’s touch and shifted onto his knees trying to kiss Brock more forcefully. He was a nibbler. He liked to nibble and suck on Brock’s lower lip and comb his fingers through the back of Brock’s hair.

 

When they parted again, Brock rose, caressed Rusty’s head once, and then shut the door.


	7. Chapter 7

It just wasn’t fair that their time was limited. In no reality were they ever going to sit there, talking for hours about their feelings, but they could’ve at least had more time to submit to these barely surfaced impulses. But of course, General Gathers had the impeccable timing to call right then.

 

Brock shot Shore Leave a look that clearly communicated that he would be punched square in the heart if he said a damn word. He rose from the bed, straightening his shirt and unmussing his hair. Rusty scrambled around for his sweater (which had ended up on the other side of the room), then grabbed the nearest shirt and started to button it up.

 

“I’ll head down to the lab,” Rusty said casually as he tucked in the back of his shirt. “Let me know if Gathers has anything worthwhile to say. I’m gonna see if I can beat your HQ techs to the punch.”

 

“You get ‘em, Doc,” Brock said.

 

Distractions. It was so much harder to focus when his mind was swirling around with the enormity of what he’d done. There was no going back from here, but at the same time, it was kind of a relief.

 

He reached the attic, ignoring Shore Leave’s knowing smirk, and approached the comm screen.

 

“Well, Samson, you’ve got the house to yourselves now. I hope you’ve been getting busy!” Gathers barked.

 

“Oh,” Shore Leave crowed. “And _how_!”

 

“Shut the hell up, you prancy bastard!” Gathers bellowed. “Listen up, Samson. About that woman you encountered. Now, she’s not Guild. Not _yet_. But if she’s looking to bust onto the scene with a high enough EMA level to start shaking down the big guns, wiping out the Southwest would be a hell of a start.”

 

“You have any idea who this chick is?” Brock asked.

 

Gathers cleared his throat. “Definitely not some benign, yoga-addicted yuppie. Watch your ass around her.”

 

“Is she working with Ruin? Or for him? In a ‘Dr. Mrs.’ situation?”

 

“Never you mind that. Just keep her at arm’s length and stay the course. Keep your eyes on Ruin and make sure everything stays within Afton Preserve.”

 

“You didn’t call just to tell us to stick with it.”

 

“No, I called to personally assure you weren’t going to kill her or try to get between those pretty, black denim-clad legs of hers!”

 

Brock began to assure Gathers that of course he knew better than to pull that shit, but then something clicked. “You _do_ know who she is.”

 

“Don’t you give me any lip, Samson! We’ve fucked this OP six ways to Sunday for your precious little family!”

 

“I don’t give a _damn_ who this girl is, but if you know somethin’ that I need to know—“

 

“I’ll let you know when you need to know, goddammit!”

 

Brock stared at the sunglasses perpetually perched on Gathers’s face. “I’ve followed you off the edge the Earth and back. I followed you when no one believed you about the Guild. I followed you even after you used me like a fucking chump, and after you put my family in the way of some hot shit assassins.”

 

“Make your point, man!”

 

“I just want you to _remember_ that.” Brock pointed at the screen while Gathers seethed. “The Doc’s closing in on somethin’ to counter this fungus. Unless something has changed, we’ve got our plan—“

  
“Good,” Gathers growled.

 

“But I expect some warning if things do change.”

 

They spoke for a few more minutes before Gathers left the line. Brock continued to look at the blank screen, feeling the frustration itch beneath his skin. For all the time he’d been with OSI, with _Gathers_ , Brock found himself reaching out for some level of trust. It had almost been there, after he’d joined SPHINX. Maybe that had just been gratitude. Or something else.

 

“He’s got HQ listening in,” Shore Leave said.

 

Brock looked at him. “What?”

 

“Transmissions in and out of HQ. They’re being monitored. Always are.”

 

“So?”

 

“So, he can’t be seen giving us extra leeway right now. You know that.” Shore Leave patted Brock’s shoulder. “It was different, back when we were all penned up in SPHINX headquarters together. We were short staffed. We cooked each other’s meals and did each other’s laundry. OSI is just… bigger.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m not crazy, though, right? He’s holdin’ something back on Donovan.”

 

“Oh, for sure. And implied she was involved in this case. But we’re not here to spy on her.” Shore Leave rubbed his chin. “They’re running a counter-OP, maybe? Or he’s already got eyes on her, and us going in would mess things up.”

 

“Ugh. Fine.” Brock smoothed his hand down his chest and sighed. “Just not used to this much waiting around. It’s makin’ me crazy.”

 

“Is _that_ what happened?” Shore Leave waggled his brows.

 

“I will _punch_ you in the _heart_ ,” Brock warned.

 

“Oh, just go down and check on your Dr. Boyfriend.”

 

Brock pointed at him in warning, but headed downstairs anyway. The house was quiet without the boys. Even when they weren’t doing much, just taking up space or napping, the place felt fuller for their presence. He hadn’t taken the time to wonder what they would think about his relationship with Rusty changing… not that, apart from the physical, he anticipated much changing.

 

The Doc would probably want Brock to spend his time off at the compound with them. That wouldn’t be too much of a burden. Maybe he could arrange it so those days lined up with the next Spanakopita trip. God, he was annoying himself. Planning out the future. When had he _ever_ done that? Apart from that time Dr. Killinger had come by the compound and given him tax advice.

 

The light in the basement was unsteady, swinging back and forth, when Brock arrived. He stopped two steps down. The quiet had just become too quiet. No grumbling noises, no clinking of lab equipment. He instinctively reached for a knife that wasn’t at his belt. After the empty grasp, he grounded himself with a deep breath and descended the steps with a practiced pace. Not so fast that he wouldn’t be able to react, but quickly enough that it would seem he was just casually coming down.

 

No one was there. The panic room was set up, and empty. The lab had several machines going, multiple beakers full of that growing fungus that seemed determined to creep out of the top, and a set of notes abandoned mid-sentence.

 

Brock scanned the room cautiously. It was possible that Rusty had just gone upstairs for a sandwich or something. But one of the beakers was on the floor and his notes were in disarray. The latter he might ascribe to the man’s lack of organization, but it was unlikely that he would just drop his experiment on the ground.

 

Brock grabbed a pair of rubber gloves proceeded to examine the scene. He picked up the beaker, scanning over it for fingerprints before setting it on the table. He looked at the scattered papers and the notes and timing on each of the machines. There was nothing else particularly illuminating on the ground, but there was a scratch on the wall.

 

Putting his fingers to the scratch, Brock leaned in close. There were two more scratches, fainter but spaced just right for a much narrower hand. Index, middle, and ring finger.

 

With that, Brock thundered upstairs and out the door. How could anyone take Rusty from the house in the daylight?

 

“Afternoon, Terry!” Wendy called from across the street.

 

“Afternoon!” Brock looked up and down the street. “Hey, you haven’t seen Sam leave with someone, have you?”

 

Wendy rose from her garden and crossed the street. “I’m sorry? Did you say Sam left?”

 

“Nah, I thought I heard him step out. Did you see him? He left his phone on the counter, or I’d just text and ask.”

 

“No, I had the morning off, so I’ve been out here for about an hour. I haven’t seen anyone coming or going.” Wendy pressed her lips together and shrugged apologetically. “Sorry.”

 

“No problem. If you seem him, though, tell him I’m looking? It’s not a big deal. I just wasn’t sure what his plans were for the day.”

 

“It’s good for him to get out of the house, though, isn’t it? He’s been so pent up working.” Wendy smiled. “Oh, and if you see him before I do, tell him that I’ve set up that coffee group we talked about. It was a hard sell, but I think Frank is looking forward to it.”

 

“I bet.” Brock wanted to growl, but there was nothing he could do. He needed to get back in and get Shore Leave’s help.  “I’ll let you get back to your, uh, flowers.”

 

“Right. Oh, I’m having the worst trouble. I just planted those. Maybe Sam can help me with them. I just don’t understand why all my flowers keep dying. It’s like nothing will grow there.” Wendy held up her hands helplessly.

 

Brock had been about to head inside, but he glanced over to her front yard. “Grass seems to be doing okay.”

 

“Don’t tell Wes I told you, but that’s fake. We used to have a pretty good lawn, but a few months ago, it just started to die off. The edge of our backyard is starting now, too.”

 

“Why would he care if you told me that?”

 

Wendy grimaced. “He used to take a lot of pride in his lawn. I think he had dreams of overtaking Celeste before her garden grew into the damn Brooklyn Botanic Garden.”

 

Brock was torn between pressing this and going out to search. He glanced over the lawns on either side of her house. How far did it go? Had Ruin already started testing out his fungus? Shit!

 

“Between the two of us, I’ve got the greener thumb, but I bet Sam could help you analyze the soil and figure out what’s going on there,” Brock offered. Of course, Ruin wouldn’t draw attention to himself by testing on his own lawn.

 

“Oh! That would be so kind! I could scoop up some samples for you—“

 

“Do you always wear those gloves when you garden?”

 

“Um, yes? It’s a bit prissy, but I don’t like dirt under my nails.”

 

“Good.” Brock had no way of covering for that question, so he didn’t try. The fungus didn’t seem deadly, but Rusty had implied there might be long term consequences. “Look, I gotta go, but we’ll definitely check that out for you.”

 

“Thanks, Terry.” Wendy touched his arm and smiled warmly.

 

Brock gave her a nod and, with a casualness that was killing him, strolled back inside. After the door was closed, he rushed upstairs.

 

* * *

 

Rusty woke, perhaps for the thousandth time in his life, tied up. He recognized the familiar pull of rope around his wrists and the pain in his muscles that came from being propped in a chair like a doll, and let out a low grumble.

 

As his eyes opened, he remembered, vaguely, a prick on his arm, starting to lose consciousness, and grabbing the wall as he was carried away. He didn’t know the person who had done it, or why they would, or whether Brock knew he was gone yet. But he knew, from the staleness of the air and the quality of the light (blaring and artificial), that he was probably still underground.

 

God, Brock. That morning they’d been doing their best impression of a couple of teenagers when their parents had gone out of town. Cringe-worthy enough on its own, that it had happened immediately after the boys had left suggested… Well, it suggested _something_. But this was _his_ life, so directly after _somehow_ sparking the interest of the man who had been most consistently a part of his adult life, they’d been interrupted, and Rusty had been kidnapped.

 

Just… obviously. What else had he expected?

 

“Hello?” Rusty called, trying to keep the sound of energy-sapping boredom out of his voice. That tended to irritate his would-be nemeses. “I’d like to talk to whoever’s in charge!”

 

Nothing. Rusty let his head fall back and sighed heavily. He tried to shift in the chair. A pain was shooting up his back thanks to however long he’d been there. And possibly thanks to whomever had carried him to this dank little basement.

 

Now that he was looking, it did look a bit like their basement back at The Smith house. Not entirely, but to a degree. The same doors, at least, and the same structure, in the way that most of the houses in the complex were built roughly the same, even if some of them had different façades or numbers of rooms and layouts. Same architect in charge of most of the neighborhood, definitely.

 

Which meant he was still at Afton Preserve. But it wasn’t his basement, or Ruin’s…

 

“If you wanted me over for coffee so badly, Mrs. Donovan, all you had to do was ask!” Rusty yelled, now letting the irritation seep into his voice. “The boys are out of town, by now. You, me, and my husband, we should make a night of it! A regular little threesome!”

 

A door opened behind him. Rusty craned his head but couldn’t see who had entered. Big clomping boots. Not Ruin, for sure. Not that pretty thing that had been flirting with Brock.

 

“Keep it down,” the man said.

 

“You mind getting your primary out here? This chair is extremely uncomfortable.”

 

“Primary?” The man knelt behind his chair and checked the knots.

 

“Your—You know. Your primary. The woman you’re henching for.”

 

A big meaty hand grasped his head, and Rusty grew hot with indignation as he inspected it. “I was pretty sure I didn’t give you a concussion.”

 

“Just because you’re a damn new recruit—“ Rusty fumed. “I mean, get the woman you’re working for in here. I want to talk to her.”

 

“Ohhh,” he said. “No.”

 

“What do you mean _no_?”

 

“I mean, she’s busy. She’ll talk to you when she’s got the time.”

 

Rusty groaned. “Do we really have to drag this out? What does she want? A ransom? Because I guarantee OSI isn’t going to pay it. And I sure as hell don’t have the extra money.”

 

“Just simmer down.” The man patted his back and stepped in front of him. He grabbed Rusty’s chin and took his glasses, looking into his eyes. “Eh. You’re okay.”

 

“Why _wouldn’t_ I be?”

 

“You’ve been working around that stuff. The reaction’s hit or miss. She took some of your blood to test.”

 

When he slid Rusty’s glasses back onto him, Rusty clocked the man’s jumpsuit. Dark blue. Yellow patch over the left side reading: Bobby.

 

“What, are you the exterminator?” Rusty said. “They hire you to kidnap people?”

 

“It’s a living.” He looked down at his own outfit. “Plus, it’s better than being stuck down here.”

 

“You saw too much, and she wouldn’t let you go? We can help with that,” Rusty said.

 

“No thanks. She doesn’t ask much, and she exposes me to less toxic shit than my last job. But you do not want to piss her off. Let me tell you that much.”

 

Bobby headed back up the steps, and Rusty yelled, “How will I ever have the chance if she won’t come down here!”

 

Rusty tapped his foot impatiently. “And today started so well,” he muttered to himself, trying to get comfortable in the chair.

 

He looked down. It had been a while since he’d been kidnapped outside of a speedsuit. He was wearing a white and blue striped dress shirt, which was “French tucked” according to Shore Leave, who had decided that first night that he would be in charge of Rusty’s fashion choices. Not all of Dr. Ferrous’s clothes had fit him, mainly because Rusty was taller and thinner, so Shore Leave had brought other clothes. Ferrous’s had been stuffed in the back of some closet. But Rusty was still stuck wearing khaki pants, which were bunching in an awkward way that he couldn’t fix without the use of his hands.

 

He frowned at the ropes on his hands. They were well-tied, but he might be able to get out of them. He could, at the very least, try to make himself more comfortable. Brock would find him. Rusty just had to keep his captors at bay until then.

 

* * *

 

Brock slammed his fist on the table, causing Shore Leave to jump.

 

“Calm down, hon. Sheesh.”

 

“He’s not in the house, but no one saw him _leave_. He’s also not in Ruin’s house, because he’s nowhere on the damn cameras. Am I supposed to be _happy_?”

 

“Just keep your pants on. We’ll figure out what happened to him.”

 

Brock shook his head. “We’ve been playing this too close, too long. I say, you and me just go over to Ruin’s house and beat the answer out of him.”

 

“You know we can’t play it that way.”

 

“I’m in charge,” Brock pointed out.

 

“Yeah, you are, but you still know that’s a bad plan.” Shore Leave elbowed him. “We go over there in force, and things could get out of control super fast. This situation needs more nuance.”

 

Brock straightened up and took in a deep breath. “Fine. You’re right. Get Gathers back on the line. Tell him if he has any info he’s been holding back, he’d better fork it over. I’m going over to Ruin’s alone.”

 

“Whoa, whoa—“ Shore Leave objected.

 

“I’m not going to beat his face in. I’m gonna have coffee with the asshole.”

 

The challenge wasn’t what to say, or what to wear. He’d had two conversations with Ruin. It wouldn’t even be too hard to keep the murder off his face, because keeping his intentions from others was second nature by now.

 

The challenge was waiting for morning. He couldn’t come over that evening on the pretense of bringing a specialty coffee. It had to be morning, and he had to keep calm.

 

Dammit.

 

* * *

 

His captor’s steps were so light that they didn’t even wake Rusty. No, it was the gentle hand laid on his shoulders instead.

 

“Brock?”

 

“Oh, no,” a smooth voice purred.

 

Rusty looked up. Celeste Donovan. He blinked. He hadn’t gotten that close of a look at her before. “Wait, don’t I know you?”

 

“It’s unlikely,” she said standing over him with hooded eyes. “Though, we have met.”

 

“Hm. That’s nice and cryptic.  Is there a reason you kidnapped me, or is this part of your cute little game?”

 

“It’s not a game. It is a plan, which I really need to know how much of _you_ understand.”

 

“Nearly nothing,” Rusty said.

 

“You’re just saying that to get out of here.” Celeste tilted her head to the side and smiled. “It’s not going to be that easy.”

 

“Well, aren’t you an Elle Rhonda Hubbard? Do you just recruit anyone who tries to stop you?”

 

“Not just anyone. Some people I find specifically for a purpose. Take Frank, for example. He had access to certain materials. I wanted that access.” She shrugged and toyed with the string on her loose, open hoodie. “And you’re aware of those materials, I know, because you sent your kids in to steal a sample of what we’ve been cooking up.”

 

“If you know that much, you know I didn’t send those two sass-mouthed teenagers. They came on their own. You ever try telling a teenager what to do? It’s like herding drunk cats.”

 

Celeste’s smile then changed. Rusty raised a brow. She’d been flirting expertly with Brock, certainly, and using the name and identity of older woman, but she couldn’t yet be thirty years old. Her face was different when she was actually amused.

 

Who would have met him in this life, that _young_ , but not someone he really knew? It had to be the same face that was hovering out of the corner of his memory, probably one of her parents.

 

“I did analyze the fungus, though. So you wanted Dr. Impossible’s work. You reengineered it for another purpose. What’s left to do at this point? Why don’t you just wipe out the neighborhood?”

 

“I’m not wiping anyone out,” Celeste scoffed.

 

“Aren’t you? Fungi that eat plastics or make the soil richer would be beneficial. Fungi that kill off plant life and keep the ground from growing anything for years…? Eh, not so much on the protagonist side.”

 

“I don’t care about those lines.” She strolled over to Rusty’s side. “You’ve had some time to look at it. Bobby told me that you had a lab in your basement. Have you found what you were looking for?”

 

“If I give you the wrong answer, am I dead?”

 

She clicked her tongue. “No. I’d rather you tell me yes, you did find it. If the answer is no, I’d like to hire you to finish.”

 

Rusty raised his brows. Celeste put her hand on his arm, causing him to tense up and shoot her a stern look.

 

“You’re working with OSI, right? You don’t _look_ like an OSI agent. So I assume you’re on the research/tech side.” Her slender fingers began to loosen the ropes. “Let me assure you that I don’t have pretenses of taking over or destroying the whole world. That’s a lot of effort to put into something that would kill me, too, as well as a lot of innocents.”

 

The ropes fell from his arm, and she rubbed the arm before pinning it into place with a preternatural strength.

 

“I want to destroy something very specific, and I don’t want anything outside of that area affected. That means having a working anti-fungal agent on the far border and a contingency plan ready to go.”

 

“Controlled chaos. How modern.”

 

Rusty met her eye as she leaned down to face him while untying his other arm. The deep amber of her mesmerizing eyes glinted, and suddenly, he remembered. Those eyes were her father’s, without a doubt. Funny that he didn’t remember her mother first, considering she was the spitting image otherwise.

 

“You’re The Knight’s daughter.”

 

“You’re Jonas Venture’s son,” she replied. She dropped the rope on the ground and stood straight, her hands on her hips.

 

Classic superhero pose. But if she was working as masked local talent somewhere, she was taking a break.

 

Rusty rubbed his wrists. He could’ve leaned over to untie his legs, but didn’t bother yet. He couldn’t run from this woman any more than he could really have run from either of her parents, Brock, or Vigo Von Hellfire. Instead, he continued to watch her closely.

 

“So do I call you Celeste Donovan, or do I call you Damona Danes?”

 

“Whatever you like. Can you do it? Do you have the proper counter for Impossible’s fungus?”

 

“With all the changes, it’s yours, now.” Rusty removed the rope over his chest and tried to brush the wrinkles from his shirt. “And, maybe. I’d say I’m about halfway done.”

 

A lie. He had it in the bag. He just needed the time to test it. But it would help his case if he had something she wanted.

 

“But why would you think I’d help you destroy, at the very least, a small town?”

 

Celeste/Damona crossed her arms. She smiled again, in that uncanny way, rather than the genuine smile she’d given him upon hearing about his boys. She was lovely, true. The perfect combination of her superhero mother and her Guild aligned father. Both dead as doornails, now.

 

“Not a _town,_ ” she purred. “A gated housing community.”


	8. Chapter 8

Brock thought he might die of boredom. Frank Ruin was possibly the most drab man on the planet. He’d thought he was immune to annoyance at the droning of aging scientists with nothing to do, but he was be wrong. It turned out, he’d just gotten used to Rusty doing it because he was fond of Rusty’s voice.

 

Ruin’s voice was more nasal and less varied in expression. He was less sarcastic, less funny, and laughed less. That this soggy piece of white bread had a crush on him was a particular low point.

 

“The name comes from France, huh? I wouldn’t’ve guessed.”

 

“Yes! Ah, well, Normandy, in fact. The capital, Rouen.” Ruin stirred his coffee and launched into the history of the area his great-grandfather had come from.

 

Brock wanted to shove the spoon into Ruin/Rouen’s eye. “So,” Brock said quickly when Ruin finally took a pause. “I hear you’re planning on having weekly coffee with a few ladies on the block and my husband.”

 

He raised a brow in a leading manner. “Should I be concerned that I wasn’t invited?”

 

“Ah-ha. Oh, no. It’s just how the neighborhood is. You’ve been taken in with the Guys’ Night Out group. It would be inappropriate for you to have coffee and tea with us ladies.”

 

No guilt. Did he not know that Rusty had been taken? He didn’t seem like the type to be able to keep secrets.

 

“I won’t be offended, then. I guess you get sports or coffee. It’ll be good for Sam to have this, though. He’s friendly, but has very few friends. I don’t really understand why that is, other than his need to protect himself and the boys.” Brock leaned forward. “You see, he had an extremely rough childhood. He’s never really had a sense of being safe, and that meant, at our last house, keeping the boys very, very close. Before we moved, I don’t think he’d been out in a month or two.”

 

“Huh.”

 

“Took some convincing to get him to come here at all,” Brock said, skating the edge of truth and cover. “So I’m glad he’ll have a friend in you. Maybe it’ll make him feel safer here.”

 

Ruin swallowed. He lifted up his coffee and took a long sip.

 

Brock smiled and lifted his own coffee. “People don’t always get us. Sam and me. We’re very different. But when you’ve shared your lives, it, uh… It goes beyond adolescent attraction or any of that romance crap. You just grow into each other like… You ever seen those trees? They’re just growin’ next to each other, but the years pass and they start twinin’ around each other. Maybe from a distance they even look like one tree, but it’s just the two of them come together. Like, uh, in Rainer.”

 

“In rain?”

 

“That poet. Said, love is hard, and that’s all the more reason to do it. And that you can sort of simply define love like, two solitudes that meet and protect each other.”

 

“Rilke,” Ruin said solemnly. He tapped on his cup with his spoon, then pointed it at Brock. “You hold unexpected depths, Terrence.”

 

“Eh. Easy to do when most people don’t try to look for it.” Brock circled his finger around the lip of his mug casually, then rose. He walked over to Ruin’s side of the counter, towering over the man. “Same for Sam, y’know. People don’t see him. Or mostly they don’t. They see the shadow of who they thought he was, or they see his father’s son, but for some reason, that rarely means looking straight on and noticing all those details. I’ve had a lifetime of noticing details, so maybe I had a better shot of knowing him. Or maybe it was just love working its will, drawing two lonely men together until the inevitable happened.”

 

“That’s uh, very romantic.”

 

“Yeah.” Brock met Ruin’s eye and reached between his legs. Ruin’s smile faded quickly.

 

“Oh! I—Ah!”

 

“You scream, and I’ll pop your balls like a pair of overripe grapes.”

 

Ruin whimpered.

 

“Now, you’re gonna tell me everything you know. Because you understand now how much I fucking love that man, and if you lie, I’ll _know_ , because you understand now that I’m very observant. You don’t know that he was taken, no, but you know where he would be if he _were_. And he has been.” Brock squeezed experimentally. “And you’ll tell me with a smile on your face, so if your boss is watching, she won’t suspect anything.”

 

He’d been guessing on the “she.” Gathers hadn’t yet gotten back to them, and that was a pity. Brock had taken it as a sign to do whatever he had to get the job done.

 

“Look, Celeste is as scary as you are. I don’t want to get her mad.”

 

“Then, let me take care of her for you, and you won’t have to deal with either of us mad,” Brock said in a low, warm voice.

 

* * *

 

Brock had been on the alert for a trap when Ruin had shown him the basement room leading to an underground tunnel. It was a long, unguarded space, and Brock had no idea if it would end in Donovan’s basement or a cage. Granted, with the level of security these two had exercised from the beginning, Brock had a hard time imagining they’d dug out a secret tunnel just for the purpose of having an underground prison. But you never knew.

 

He’d also tied Ruin up before he’d left. No need to force that noodle of a man make the decision to call his boss or not. He also didn’t want to have to worry about Ruin being a distraction on the way. Brock had enough distractions as it was.

 

The tunnel was fairly straight. Unless the curve was incredibly subtle, he was traveling directly north. That should actually take him to Donovan’s house. He would’ve appreciated more back-up from Shore Leave, but between the man’s reluctance to break protocol and Gathers’s lack of helpfulness overall, Brock had few choices. Shore Leave had probably seen Brock in the basement with Ruin, but for all intents and purposes, this was a solo mission.

 

Sort of how it had always been with the Ventures. Been a minute since he did one of these.

 

When he reached the end of the tunnel, he approached the door slowly. Because it really was just a door. The ground evened out into the same wooden boards that were in everyone’s basement around here, and there was a light on under the door. He stepped up and put his ear to it. Nothing.

 

Brock took a breath, unsheathed the knife he’d taken pains to conceal despite wearing a tight shirt and a very tight pair of jeans, and opened the door. The basement was empty. There was a chair, and some ropes on the ground, but no Doc. No people. Actually nothing down here aside from the secret tunnel and some assorted gardening supplies.

 

Strike that. Brock walked over to another door an opened it. Another tunnel. But this one, when Brock examined it, took several forking paths. It could lead back to their house, or any number of other houses. It wasn’t a good sign if Rusty was being moved to a second location. Ruin seemed to think that Donovan would keep Rusty at the house, however.

 

With a sigh, Brock closed the door and went upstairs to be sure.

 

Donovan’s house was like their own, but sparser in décor. There was an earthy, if not unpleasant scent in the air, with the undercurrent of mildew. Probably inevitable, given the reality that if Donovan was the primary on this case, she probably had some hand in the development of the fungus as well.

 

He made his steps slowly and with practiced determination to not make a sound. Listening carefully, he could hear voices in another room and drew nearer.

 

“Hey, who are you?”

 

A tall, beefy man came running at him. Brock knocked him in the face, grabbed him by the neck, and slammed him against the wall. He prepared for more henchmen to come out of the woodwork, but that was it. Brock dragged him along until he approached an expansive kitchen and then dropped him on an overstuffed chair.

 

“Do you _understand_ me?” Donovan snapped.

 

“I’ve been at this a lot longer than you have, kid,” Rusty said.

 

Good ol’ Doc. Never acting the way the villains expected.

 

“No, don’t!” Rusty cried.

 

Brock lunged into the room, brandishing his knife, and bellowed, “On the ground, Donovan.”

 

The two of them looked up from the large kitchen island covered in samples and lab equipment. Both of them. Wearing masks over their faces and gloves. Rusty was in a fresh, V-necked shirt, and Donovan, as Gathers had suggested, had traded her yoga pants for a pair of black jeans.

 

“What the Hell is going on?” Brock demanded.

 

“What did you do to Bobby?” Donovan asked. She stepped away from the microscope and pulled off her mask.

 

“He came at me when I was in a mood. He won’t make that mistake again.”

 

“You killed him?!”

 

Donovan took a few steps forward, subtly positioning herself defensively. She was definitely ready to fight, and Brock felt like a fight. He tightened his jaw and grinned.

 

She launched herself at him like a torpedo. He staggered back, surprised at her strength, but grabbed one of her arms swiftly and firmly. She twisted in his grasp, grabbed his arm, and flipped him over her head. He crashed into a large, red sofa and scrambled to his feet ready to take this bitch out.

 

She bounced on her toes, waiting for him to make a move. She’d certainly use his size against him if she could, and he had dropped his knife. He feigned a barrel toward her, and when she moved to counter him, he ducked underneath, grabbed her legs, and slammed her into the ceramic, coral-colored kitchen tile.

 

Swiftly, she grabbed the back of his hair and _pulled_ , causing Brock to let out a cross between a yell and a growl.

 

“Damona! Let him go! He probably just knocked Bobby out. He’s not being coy. Bodies are hard to clean up in a gated community!” Rusty said. “Brock, stand _down_.”

 

“Are you out of your mind? She kidnapped you!” Brock argued.

 

“Ugh. Well, she can join the club!”

 

Brock eyed the woman holding his hair and sneered at her. She released him, and when he did the same for her, she slid out from under him and put several paces between them.

 

Brock rose to his feet and glared at Rusty. “What is this?”

 

“This is Damona Danes.” Rusty gestured to her and leaned back against the stove.

 

Donovan/Danes squared her shoulders and hooked her thumbs in her jeans.

 

“She’s commissioned me to finish Impossible and Ruin’s respective work,” Rusty said. “Make the fungus more controllable, and include a way to stop it when she wants to.”

 

Brock frowned, looking between them. “What?”

 

“She’s not after the _world_ , Brock. She’s after _Malice_.”

 

It didn’t register at first, but in a moment, Brock realized that Rusty meant the cute little gated community that the Guild members had set up for themselves. Not a loss to anyone, really. Even if creating the fungus was risky in itself.

 

“This isn’t your business, Agent Smith,” Danes said. With her eerie yoga-girl façade dropped, the young woman came off very much like an agent herself. “OSI counters Guild activity and regulates what its scientists can create in conjunction with the major corporations that end up funding your organization. There’s nothing in there about one woman’s vendetta against individual members of the Guild. You’ve got no obligation to protect them from the consequences of the evils that they have wrought.”

 

“Danes, hm?” The girl talked exactly like her mother. Not that Brock had been in the field when she’d died, but during Brock’s training, they had been privy to surveillance of some mid-level players. Funny to think she would’ve been a little kid then. “I still can’t let you keep a deadly fungus. C’mon, Doc, you know this doesn’t end like that.”

 

“We’re in the clear for jurisdiction,” Rusty objected. “Night Marionette killed _both_ of her parents, including _Cat’s Claw_. And Claw was definitely a card-carrying antagonist. The Guild did exactly nothing about it.”

 

“Why should _they_ get to live in their protected little community when each and every one of them has destroyed lives?” Danes said.

 

“At least they’re all in one place,” Brock said. “Do you _really_ want those people out living around the rest of the population?”

 

“What does it matter? Neither OSI nor the Guild are going to do a damn thing about it. It should benefit you, too,” Danes said. “Wouldn’t you like to see The Monarch pay for his crimes? I helped Captain Sunshine train that kid The Monarch murdered. A _child_. He sent Chuck the remains in a goddamn gift box.”

 

Brock rubbed his forehead and looked at Rusty dubiously.

 

“Look, Brock. If I knew who was really responsible for my father’s death—I mean, granted, the man was an asshole and probably deserved it—but if I _knew_ …” Rusty faltered and glanced over their work on the island. “I don’t think I’d be able to rest knowing they were getting to go on with their lives, consequence-free. I would want to know they’d suffered.”

 

“This is _antagonist_ work, Doc,” Brock scolded gently.

 

Rusty pressed his lips together stubbornly. “This is a _commission_. She’s paying me. It’s the same as any private contractor asking for me to science them up a solution. I did it for her _mother_ before. And it’s not OSI’s job to stop vigilantes from threatening villains’ safe spaces.”

 

It was hard to argue that logic. In fact, the treaties tended to tell OSI to get the fuck out of situations like this. Still…

 

“I gotta report this.”

 

“Really?” Rusty was looking at him. In that lost way. In that way he had when he’d first found out that Brock had been reporting to OSI for their entire time together.

 

“I’m fucking up their homes,” Danes said. “I’m wrecking their safety. But I’m not endangering their lives or anyone else’s.”

 

“And if it spreads? What happened to Wendy White’s lawn?” Brock asked.

 

“Oh. That was an accident,” Danes breezed. “Frank probably carried some beetles over on his pant leg.”

 

“I’m _making sure_ that it won’t spread,” Rusty said. “And if it does, we can contain it. I’m absolutely positive. You tell your superiors that we made contact with the primary person of interest, and we’re taking the proper precautions.”

 

It was a bizarre sight, now that Brock was thinking about it. Two scientists in casual clothing and Mad Science gear working very hard to mildly inconvenience an entire community of supervillains. Granted, any community that got infected by a virulent fungus would automatically have plummeting property values. That shit tended to keep growing until something stopped it. It would overrun their homes and cover everything. Every Guild member in Malice would lose money, and probably their homes, too. It wouldn’t even be possible to sell a house under those conditions. Brock couldn’t tell if this was more characteristic of The Knight, who had been famous for her cunning and her obsessive behavior, or Cat’s Claw, who was at best an irritating thief with some extra-human powers.

 

The more he thought about it, the more Brock wondered how much Gathers had known. He had to know who Danes was, at the very least, once they’d gotten a picture of her. He was the kind to put that sort of thing together. The way he’d talked about her, though, suggested he’d been in the dark with regard to her motivations. It would probably be a relief to him that she was still comfortably somewhere in the middle, and nowhere near wanting to sign on with the Guild.

 

Brock crossed his arms sternly. “We can go with that.”

 

“Seriously?” Danes looked suspicious.

 

“Seriously. I should probably go untie Ruin before he wets himself, if he hasn’t already.” Brock half-turned, then looked back as something occurred to him. “Do you know General Gathers?”

 

“Um… I don’t think so,” Danes said.

 

“You might not remember. He’s in OSI,” Rusty said.

 

“I assumed. If he investigated Night Marionette’s attack on my father—“ Danes shrugged. “I was seven, and there were _dozens_ of police asking me questions that night.”

 

Brock nodded slowly. Before leaving, he stormed over to Rusty, took his face in his hand, and kissed him fiercely.

 

“Mm!”

 

“Next time you convince your captor to let you go, you call me, _jackass_ ,” Brock said.

 

“I thought we’d be done faster. I was hoping to get it done before you got here so you wouldn’t have to decide what to say to OSI.”

 

“Weirdly considerate and sneaky, but I’d still want to know you were okay.” Brock pressed a kiss to Rusty’s forehead. “I’ll be back.”

 

“Okay.”

 

That smirk on his lips made Brock want to give him a smack on the ass, but it also caused a wave of relief. He wouldn’t be smiling like that if he weren’t really all right.

 

And Danes? She’d stopped paying attention to the two of them and was back to looking at the fungus, mask up, hyper-fixated as either of her parents could be. Another stupid end to a stupidly long mission that could’ve been solved by Gathers sitting down and having a conversation like a normal person.

 

Brock would’ve been pissed if things hadn’t worked out so well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What won't Rusty do for a paycheck?


	9. Chapter 9

“So. When did you know it was me?” Rusty asked, pulling off a glove and heading to the sink to wash up.

 

Damona made a few more notes before yawning and going to prepare her coffee. As it turned out, she did have a very nice espresso machine. He wondered how the last few days would’ve gone if Brock had just taken him over for coffee. Not that Rusty blamed him for having his OSI-sense go off around The Knight’s daughter. Her imitation of a Normal Person was impressive, but catch it in the right light, and it was downright eerie.

 

“Took me longer than I would have thought. Still, when you helped my mother that time, I was just a kid.”

 

“A job’s a job. And Venture Industries was famous for doing that kind of work.” Rusty tried not to think too hard on it. Jonas had left him a pile of contracts to deal with. Rusty had just gone in to fulfill it.

 

Damona pulled some coconut milk out of the refrigerator and poured a bit in her cup. “I got suspicious for the first time that someone might have infiltrated the neighborhood when I first saw your son.”

 

“Ohhh. You thought he was me?”

 

“No. He had his nose in a book. I couldn’t see his face.” She sipped her coffee, though it had to be scalding hot. “I thought he was The Monarch. They have a very similar build. Similar hair texture. Your son is much better groomed in the area of eyebrows, though.”

 

Rusty resisted a laugh. “He does _not_ look like The Monarch. Why would he?”

 

“I couldn’t say. You and he are both slim. Have red hair. Or had.”

 

“Hmph.”

 

“And you have a similar long face, pointed chin, hawkish nose. Although yours has been broken several times, and set badly,” Damona noted, tapping the bridge of her own sleek, snub nose. “Makes it look bigger.”

 

“I don’t really want to know how you know about that.”

 

“I’m observant.” Her brows raised, and she smiled again.

 

“You’re really creepy when you smile.”

 

She smiled wider, showing the sharp tips of her eye-teeth.

 

Rusty clicked his tongue. “Claw would’ve liked this plan. He would never have come up with anything like it, but he would have appreciated it.”

 

Damona grunted in acknowledgement.

 

“You know, after you pull this off—and you _will_ , because I know what I’m doing—it never ends. You’ll have card-carrying Guild members lining up to be your nemesis.”

 

“I don’t care what they do to me,” Damona said sternly. “I care that they are punished, even if it can’t be commensurate to their crimes. They are _smug_. High on their own drama and deluded into believing they’re the heroes of their own stories, no matter how many people they hurt.”

 

Her amber eyes burned furiously. “I want to watch their world burn.”

 

And that was her mother. Rusty wondered who had raised the kid after her parents had died. _Someone_ had found her and trained her. That was for sure. They really ought to open some kind of home for the orphaned children of vigilantes. She was a little off (though about as much as her parents), but she could’ve gone a lot farther.

 

“Whoever gets you, I’m just suggesting…” Rusty sighed. There was no point in telling someone like her to back off. It would be as futile as trying to get Hank to take off his Batman mask when he was in a mood. “Well, you’ve got connections now. If it comes to that.”

 

Damona set her coffee down. “I think I’m amused at how easily you agreed to do this.”

 

“I’ve had people assume the worst about my inventions more times than I can count.” Rusty waved her off. “It’s always easier to have direction on a project. Editing the scope of what something can do down to something manageable and useful. Not every day I’m given such clear objectives. Besides, it isn’t like OSI really asked me to do anything much different than you did.”

 

“Except I offered to pay you.”

 

“Important distinction.” Rusty stroked his beard. “A man likes to get paid.”

 

“Frank’s going to be put out that he got fired.” Damona looked out over the sitting area where her sofa was still knocked over. “He did get a house, though. I’ll have to wait to put this one back on the market until after the plan is underway…”

 

“Why did you set up here anyway?” Rusty chuckled. “It’s a strange choice for a secret lair, you have to admit.”

 

“Apart from architects inexplicably planning underground tunnels? And this community being a safe distance from the city, and within my budget for my plan?” Damona walked over to the sofa and lifted it back into place. “Decided that if I was going to do this, I needed to experience the kind of community I was going to destroy. I have to feel it to commit to it. Granted, as annoying as some of them are, not all of them are bad people. Here, I mean. Malice has felons, child molesters, and retired lunatics who dress up like fucking puppets before gutting people in the street with hooked tactical knives.”

 

“Is Night still _there_? I don’t remember seeing him the last time I went.” Rusty hesitated. “It’s possible that Hatred just didn’t invite him.”

 

Damona side-eyed him.

 

“He was assigned to be my arch a little while ago and threw a block party. It was as weird as you’d expect.”

 

“I enjoy the concept that Night is spending his twilight years alone.”

 

“He has to be seventy by now. Who would he spend time with? He wasn’t even that good at the team-up when he was active.” Rusty considered that. “Dr. Z, maybe. He’s friendly enough. But he lives in Florida and is busy with the Guild council. He doesn’t socialize in Malice.”

 

Damona slumped over and stared at the ground. Rusty knew that look. He’d lived that look, in moments when he’s stopped to wonder who had been responsible for his father’s death. He didn’t think telling her to push it away would do any good. She had a plan. She was going about it actively. All Rusty had really done, after grilling Team Venture about it, was push people away and savor his misery.

 

“Even if you didn’t do anything, he’d probably live out the rest of his days alone and unhappy. Wretched people tend to do that to themselves.”

 

“It’s not enough.” Damona pushed her lips out and pressed her palms into her jeans. “I still want to cut him open and watch him bleed the way he made my father bleed. To sever his spine the way he severed my mother’s spine. To let him feel hopeless and afraid the way I felt hopeless and afraid.”

 

She pushed away from the sofa. “But I’m not doing that. I’m doing _this_.”

 

“Under the circumstances, maybe it’s the better choice.”

 

She snorted. “ _Maybe_? You’re not a very good mentor.”

 

“Who made _me_ the mentor in this?”

 

“You’re like twenty years older than me.”

 

“I’m not the person to talk about revenge with, though.” He came over to her side of the island and leaned back on it. “I never got mine.”

 

“So you moved on?”

 

“I didn’t do _that_ either. I just… kept moving.” Rusty rubbed his temple. “It’s easy to do that when you have two very small, very vulnerable children to think about.”

 

“I’ll pass on that.”

 

“Reasonable. You’re creating your own mayhem.” Rusty gestured to her. “But after that, and after the radiation levels go down in my manufacturing wing, I have space on the compound.”

 

“Do you think I’m homeless?”

 

“You disappeared for years.”

 

“I’m good at disappearing.”

 

“You and Brock have that in common.”

 

“Brock? Oh, right, that’s Terrance?”

 

“Please, _please_ , call him that when he comes to pick me up.”

 

Damona smirked. “I could use another good sparring match.”

 

“After spending weeks here playing house, so could he,” Rusty said.

 

“I’ll take ya up on that sometime,” Brock boomed from behind him.

 

Rusty turned just as Brock was wrapped his arm around Rusty’s shoulders.

 

“Ya hair-puller,” Brock accused.

 

Damona grinned.

 

“You two done here yet?” Brock squeezed Rusty’s shoulders.

 

Rusty tried to force back his blush by sheer force of will. “I should probably check in on the results again in a couple of days, but I think we’ve got it pretty much wrapped up.”

 

“Finally.” Brock let out a long-suffering sigh. “See ya around, kid.”

 

“See ya around, _Terrance_ ,” Damona chirruped.

 

Brock made a sour face as he guided Rusty toward the hall.

 

“In a hurry?” Rusty asked. “Do we have somewhere to be?”

 

Brock made a noise deep in his throat. Rusty looked up at him, expecting anger to be written all over his face, but there was no anger there. Anxiety, yes, and something Rusty couldn’t identify.

 

He melted into Brock’s side, wondering at how close they were. Side by side, with Brock pinning him close to his body, even though no one was shooting at them. Hardly anyone was there to even care (Bobby was probably still recovering in Damona’s guest room). When they reached the front door, Rusty’s mouth fell open.

 

After all these weeks in Afton’s Preserve, even after having heard the rumors and the complaints, Rusty had never seen the house from the front. There were rows of colors, exploding in blues and purples and reds. Little dazzles of yellow sprinkling here and there as if to punctuate the sentences written in color around them. The two of them walked down the cobblestone path through the garden. You could barely see the house from the sidewalk. Part of the reason for this magnificent resplendence of flora. The other, of course, was so that Damona would have all the samples she needed ready at hand for experimentation.

 

Inside all this beauty lay something irreparably broken, and struggling with every spark of life to fix itself.

 

Rusty lay his head on Brock’s shoulder and sighed. He might never resolve the issues around his father’s death. He might never quite resolve what Myra had stirred up. He touched the hand that Brock had draped over his shoulder and squeezed it tightly.

 

“This isn’t for them,” Brock whispered. A quiet promise.

 

“I know.”

 

Regardless, Rusty ignored their neighbors for the most part as the two of them walked in the evening light toward the little house they called their own. He focused on listening to Brock’s heartbeat and thinking of all those times they’d been so close, could’ve had this, and yet had chosen not to speak it into existence. As broken as Damona was, at least she was _doing_ something.

 

“In a few days, we’ll be done here,” Rusty said, his voice tight.

 

“Yeah,” Brock said, in a tone that was far too grateful.

 

“And… then…?”

 

“I’ve been workin’ on that. I’ll have to head back to HQ for debriefing. We both will.”

 

Rusty scowled. “I didn’t mean the mission!”

 

Brock rubbed Rusty’s shoulder. “I know, but that part comes first. Then… Well, I dunno exactly, but I’ll have to work out something. Other agents have a life outside. I just never tried it before.”

 

Rusty nodded.

 

“Don’t,” Brock said softly.

 

“What am I doing?”

 

“Actin’ like things are gonna be like they were. It can’t be, can it?”

 

“If I’m at the compound, and you’re out on missions—“

 

“We don’t go on missions 24/7. That’s the way you end up with headcases.” Brock leaned over and kissed Rusty’s temple. “I get time off.”

 

Rusty perked up and met Brock’s eye hopefully.

 

“You’ve got real low expectations here, Doc. I can’t say that doesn’t work in my favor, but it’s not too flatterin’ either.”

  
“When have you _ever_ taken time off? The only time you ever left us was to go on a different mission.”

 

“Well, in between your work, I just got to be with you and the boys. And work in my garden.” Brock grinned. “Visit sunny Spanakopita.”

 

“Oh, you’re gonna come next year? It was a bit of a let down, going there with Billy and Pete.”

 

“I bet.”

 

They reached the house, and Brock opened the door for Rusty.

 

“Oh, so you’re chivalrous now?”

 

“Just get in the damn house.”

 

So he did. And Brock swept his arm around Rusty’s waist, kissing him so suddenly that Rusty’s glasses went askew.

 

“I keep feeling like you’re going to change your mind, and then you keep doing things like _that_.”

 

“I don’t change my mind all that often.” Brock pulled Rusty closer and tilted his head to the side as he looked down at him. “I’m not exactly prone to fits of whimsy.”

 

Rusty let out a laugh. “That’s true enough.”

 

“You want me to slow down?” Brock watched Rusty intently. “I just wanted you back here. We’d only started, and you disappeared into thin air.”

 

“Aw. Worried about me.”

 

“Pretty much a full time job, bein’ worried about you,” Brock grumbled. “Helps if I’ve got someone to punch, though.”

 

“Seems like Damona is looking for a good release— _No_. No.” Rusty cut himself off before letting that innuendo into the air.

 

“She’s a _child_. I’m not interested in her.”

 

“She’s about 27, and you’ve screwed women decades younger than you before.”

 

Brock relaxed his grip. “I was never with someone before.”

 

“True, I—“ Rusty raised brow. “Never? Have I, very _very_ technically, had more relationships than you?”

 

“And I’ve had, in no way a technicality, loads more sex than you,” Brock argued.

 

“I don’t know if that counts. You ever done a guy before?”

 

Brock’s expression was priceless. Because _of course_ he hadn’t. They hadn’t said a word about it, but making that first move on Rusty had been a leap in itself.

 

“Guess that part makes us more or less equal,” Rusty said.

 

“What’s the more? And the less? I’ve never seen you with a guy.”

 

“I may have fooled around a bit in college.” Rusty shrugged. “Nothing that involved more than a little hand lotion.”

 

Brock’s eyes grew to the size of saucers. “Who—?”

 

Rusty shook his head. No need to open up that can. Steadying himself by holding the back of Brock’s neck, Rusty lifted himself onto the tips of his toes and kissed him. Brock’s frown softened, and he closed his eyes. He moved his hand down to the center of Rusty’s back.

 

Rusty’s heart seemed to swell inside him, overtaking his senses with its thunderous beat until there was nothing but the thudding and Brock’s lips and his arms around him. This was it. They’d survived the initial flush of whatever had happened after their fight in the bedroom, and come right back to the house and started again. Even at his most skeptical, every subsequent kiss whittled away at Rusty’s fear and hesitation that this just couldn’t be _real_.

 

But logic had to prevail. They’d reached for each other. They’d admitted it. They were in this. How hard could the rest be?

 

* * *

 

Honestly, Brock had never thought that he’d have reason to be jealous of someone else in Rusty’s life, but apparently the prospect that he’d gotten lucky, if not gone all the way, in college sparked a definite curiosity.

 

At the moment, though, he didn’t have the brain space to care. He just lifted Rusty into his arms and carried him toward the bedroom.

 

“Shore Leave—?” Rusty asked.

 

“He took Ruin back with him to HQ for debriefing.”

 

They had the house to themselves. Truly to themselves. Their cover was still in place. Nothing stopping them, no one to interrupt. Brock dropped Rusty back on the bed and grinned.

 

“You keep grinning like that, like you have any idea what you’re gonna do next,” Rusty teased.  


“Oh, I have an idea.”

 

Brock knelt beside him to continue what they’d begun in the living room. Kiss after kiss, the heat between them rose until Brock stripped his shirt off and tossed it aside. Rusty’s shirt, he just ripped in half.

 

“Mature.”

 

“Not yours anyway,” Brock muttered before crawling over him and kissing his way down Rusty’s neck.

 

Experimentally, and remembering a few things Rusty had said in the past, he brushed his finger over one of his nipples. He chuckled slightly, seeing both spring to action. Rusty let out a soft grunt of discomfort, and Brock moved his rough hand away to replace it with his soft tongue. Apparently, a lot of what you could do with women translated. They didn’t need to take a class to get this going between them.

 

With a more teasing touch from his tongue, and a firm but practiced hand at Rusty’s crotch, Brock proudly elicited real gasps:

 

“Ah! Ah! Ah!”

 

The lump growing under his hand, Brock stroked carefully over Rusty’s khakis, enjoying the feel of his hips coming up to meet his hand, his body writhing beneath him.

 

“B-Brock!”

 

Brock moved his arm around Rusty’s shoulders on the bed and kissed Rusty’s quivering lips lightly.

 

It didn’t take long. Brock hadn’t thought that it would, giving how much time had to have passed since anyone besides Rusty himself had been down there. Soon he was stiffening underneath him, and surprisingly, grew quiet, his eyes rolling back and his mouth working silently as he came.

 

Brock grinned and pressed his lips to Rusty’s cheek. He lay beside him on the bed, and Rusty rolled over, resting his head on Brock’s chest. It was so easy to fit him there, right under his arm.

 

“You’re an apt pupil,” Rusty muttered.

 

“I’ve had a lot of access to the equipment.”

 

“I was going with an academic metaphor, and you just _had_ to make it sports.”

 

Brock laughed and hugged Rusty to him. They lay in the bed together silently for quite a while. But the quiet grew into something like solace. In these final days in the house that was not really their home, with the marriage that was not really their own, it represented the time they had, uninterrupted, together.

 

Afterward… Well, they’d have to work a little harder to find that time. Brock was pretty good at being in the moment, however. He’d make sure that Rusty focused during these days, too.

 

When Rusty started to rise, Brock pulled him back down, earning him a stubborn look. Rusty moved his head back to Brock’s chest as he unbuttoned his pants, and Brock watched with interest. Long, slim fingers that were just a hair too cold slipped under Brock’s briefs and began to prove a practiced dexterity that Brock should have expected. He was throbbing, and Rusty’s hand more than warm, when he rose from Brock’s arms to pull his pants down further.

 

With a wicked little smile, that included biting the tip of his tongue (but thankfully did not include saying, “meow”), Rusty lowered his head. Brock’s brows shot up. That acid tongue turning tricks around his cock, the thin lips sucking vigorously and greedily, his hand along the base of his shaft, and the other tenderly massaging his balls.

 

Brock never would have thought that Rusty Venture knew his way around a cock.

 

He would just have to be grateful for whatever odd lessons Rusty had picked up during college. When Brock’s back arched, and Rusty made a gagging noise, Brock reached down and their fingers intertwined. Rusty never gave up. He saw it through until he was coughing again and even then, kept stroking with his free hand until Brock was finished.

 

Brock was not quiet. He let out an appreciative roar.

 

Rusty wiped his mouth, blushing and smiling sheepishly. “Holy _God_ , you are _huge_.”

 

“Thanks, babe.” Brock pulled at Rusty’s hand

 

“And _loud_. I do like a challenge, though.” Rusty climbed back up to lie beside him. “Well, sometimes. When it comes to this, definitely.”

 

“Never suspected it.”

 

“Glad to be able to surprise you.”

 

“After all these years together.”

 

Brock rolled over to give Rusty a kiss, and Rusty pulled back a little.

 

“Fine, if you want a snowball.”

 

“A _what_?”

 

“I just blew you. Do you wanna taste yourself?”

 

Brock lifted his chin. “Huh. _Snowball_?”

 

Rusty kissed his cheek. “Maybe on the second date, you filthy kinkster.”

 

“Hm. Yeah, maybe we should hit the showers.”

 

“If you use one more sports metaphor, I’m divorcing you.”

 

Brock kissed the top of Rusty’s head and stroked the back of it. “Nah, you won’t.”

 

“Nope. I’m right here. Where I’ve always been.”

 

Knowing that he couldn’t exactly make the same promise—not his decision, and leaving OSI was complicated and dangerous for his family—Brock leaned in until his forehead was touching Rusty’s and gave the one thing he could give, even if it was hard.

 

“I love you.”

 

“I-I…”

 

“We’re gonna make this happen. No one stubborner than a Venture. No one harder than a Samson. Don’t worry, Doc. Okay?”

 

Rusty said nothing for a moment, then, “I will worry, but I’ll do so believing you’ll come back this time.”

 

“I’ll always come back. As long as I physically can.”

 

“Hence: Worry.”

 

Brock squeezed him tightly. “I got a lot more reason to fight to be able to do that, now. And you know how I love a fight.”

 

Rusty hummed in response and curled into him again. They were sweaty and sticky, and they both needed a shower, but for now, they just held one another. Brock wasn’t as confident about handling the OSI as he used to be, but he had a bit of faith, here and here, in the people in it, and their connections to the world. Other agents managed this. They did the damned paperwork and got leave. He and Rusty might be a little less equipped emotionally than others, but they’d worked for this. They’d survived for this.

 

The two of them and their boys. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short epilogue on the way.


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine the Roll End Credits section Animal House “where they are now” style with peppy early 00s pop/punk playing in the background. I don’t have a video editor on this laptop.

Sunlight streamed into the bedroom, and Hank bounced out of bed and ran into the hallway full speed. He held his hands out as he surfed across the floor, sliding until he hit the stairwell to the attic and ran up them. He rapped on the door with both hands, banging out the beat to the latest song he was writing for Shallow Gravy.

 

“Knock it off!”

 

“Get up! Let’s get breakfast!” Hank waited a moment. “C’moooon.”

 

“Dad’s not gonna make us breakfast.” Dean opened the door and caught Hank’s hand. “Just—Stop.”

 

“You stay up too late. And he might. If we double-team him!”

 

Dean yawned and scratched the back of his head. “He’s not going to be in a good mood.”

 

Hank, not one to take no for an answer, pulled on Dean’s hand until he came down with him.

 

“We’d have better luck if one of us were on fire,” Dean muttered.

 

“He’s just grumpy because Brock’s still at OSI debriefing.”

 

“You debrief for a couple of _hours_ , maybe. You don’t debrief for three weeks.” Dean slumped his shoulders forward. “He’s not coming back. Just like last time.”

 

“Brock comes back,” Hank argued. “He’s got super-spy stuff to do.”

 

Dean grumbled and shuffled along behind him. They ignored Sergeant Hatred’s door, because he’d just burn some scrambled eggs and pour ketchup on them.

 

“If he’s asleep, I’ll make something,” Dean said. “Don’t wake him…”

 

When the two of them reached the room, the door was cracked open. They looked at one another, and Hank stuck his head inside.

 

“Uhhh… Huh.”

 

“What? Is he in there?”

  
“…Yes?”

 

“What does _that_ mean?” Dean poked his head in the door to see for himself. His mouth opened wide, and then he shut it quickly and made a high pitched noise deep in his throat.

 

“I guess Brock came back and didn’t wanna sleep on the couch,” Hank said.

 

Dean grabbed Hank’s shoulder excitedly and shook his head.

 

“What, are you having a seizure?” Hank asked.

 

“Hey. Keep it down,” Brock said, without opening his eyes. “Got in late last night.”

 

In the middle of their father’s king sized bed lay Brock, with his arm curled around Rusty, who was fast asleep with his head against Brock’s bare chest. The blankets were tousled around them, and the morning light bathed them in a kind of glow. Dean started to blush, and Hank kept looking between Brock and his father with confusion written into his brow.

 

“I can’t believe Pop let you sleep in his bed,” Hank said. “He must’ve missed you a lot.”

 

“Guess so,” Brock said.

 

“Are you staying?” Dean asked hopefully.

 

“I got a week before I head back.” Brock looked up to them and smiled. His hand stroked the back of Rusty’s neck casually.

 

“You think you can get Pop to make breakfast?” Hank asked. Dean nudged him and gave him a pointed look, but Hank just shrugged.

 

“Yeah, give us a few minutes more, and I’ll see what I can do.” Brock narrowed his eyes. “You okay, Dean?”

 

“Yes!” Dean nodded frenetically.

 

Then, unable to contain himself, he rushed over to the bed to hug the both of them from the side. Hank hopped on the edge of the bed and crossed his legs.

 

“Are we gonna do stuff? What are you back for? Are we gonna go on an adventure or something?” Hank asked.

 

“Let’s just see how it pans out,” Brock said.

 

Rusty shifted and grumbled, “One of you had _better_ be on _fire_.”

 

“They’re hopin’ for some breakfast,” Brock said.

 

“They can _hope_.” Rusty snuggled into Brock’s side.

 

Brock leaned down and kissed the top of Rusty’s head. “Maybe I’m hopin’, too.”

 

Rusty opened his eyes and glanced at the two boys on his bed. “Umm…”

 

“Morning, Dad,” Dean said.

 

“You’re chipper.”

 

Dean nodded and bit his lip trying to contain his grin. Rusty half-smiled in return and looked up at Brock, who also smiled.

 

Hank puzzled at Brock, tilting his head so far to the side that it was almost touching his shoulder. “Yeah… What’s everybody so happy about?”

 

“The um… promise of waffles,” Dean said.

 

“O… kay.” Hank looked dubious.

 

“They’re smilin’ because I put in the paperwork to get family leave time. A week is what I could wrangle for now, but I’ll be staying here when I get time off,” Brock explained.

 

“Cool! I didn’t know you could get family leave with us.”

 

“Never asked before now,” Brock said.

 

“How come now?”

 

“Hank!” Dean gestured to them.

 

“What?” Hank frowned at Dean, then looked back at Rusty and Brock.

 

In the bed.

 

Sort of underdressed.

 

Like… on top of each other. And Brock was holding him. And he’d kissed his head.

 

“Uhhh…”

 

Dean shoved Hank’s arm and laughed.

 

“Oh, my God! Brock’s our new mommy!” Hank yelled.

 

Brock groaned, and Rusty chuckled, patting Brock’s chest.

 

“ _This._ This right here is the family you joined,” he said.

 

“Could’a chosen worse,” Brock said softly. “Hey, boys. Do us a favor, and get out the stuff for breakfast, and give us a few minutes.”

 

It didn’t take them any time to clear the room. The boys set up in the kitchen and eagerly got the ingredients out and started talking in low voices until Rusty and Brock both reappeared in their robes.

 

“Heeey,” Hank said. “Were you two kiiiiisssing?”

 

“You don’t have to answer that,” Dean said. Then, “Please don’t.”

 

“Not gonna, but if you see it, you’ll have to get used to it. Are you okay with that?” Brock asked.

 

Rusty waggled his brows at the boys and chose to give Brock a quick kiss on the lips before heading into the kitchen.

 

“I don’t care what gets you here, as long as you’re _here_!” Hank hopped on the table and sat on it. “I mean, I don’t wanna hold you back or anything—“

 

“You won’t. Don’t you boys ever worry about that. I’m where I wanna be.”

 

Brock started to make the coffee, and the kitchen filled with the sounds and smells of an early morning. Then, slowly, with the buzz of easy conversation and contentment.

 

 

 

* * *

 

[ **~Roll End Credits~** ](https://youtu.be/wIDgXShFOyM)

[ **To New Found Glory's "Failure Is Not Flattering"** ](https://youtu.be/wIDgXShFOyM)

 

Hank took about five more minutes before asking Brock a question detailed enough to render him speechless and his father red-faced.

 

Damona Danes blew most of her savings on the Malice caper, putting her in the crosshairs of both OSI and The Guild in the process. She’s slipped off the radar again, though it’s suspected the General knows her secret identity.

 

Damona’s check cleared and Rusty was able to pay his water and electricity bills. He never told the boys how close he’d come to having to sell the compound this time.

 

Brock added a secret agent’s touch to the master bedroom. It is no longer a shrine to the 70s. Now it’s more a shrine to the 70s and 80s… Also, there’s a weight bench.

 

Dean still lives in the attic and reads depressing books…

 

But he’s getting a little more sunlight, since Brock put the boys in charge of keeping his herb garden alive while he’s away on missions.

 

The boys do get breakfast made for them about once a week when their father is in a good mood. Hank is super stoked.

 

Rusty spilled the tea over coffee to Wendy before they left Afton Preserve. Her husband Wes is now enjoying life living in the guest room and awaiting divorce papers. Unfortunately for him, the Ellis’s have an open relationship, so his shady accomplice is doing quite well. Their son is still addicted to Fortnite.

 

Carol Anne is disappointed that she never got to try Sam Smith’s macaroni. She feels a little responsible for the only gay couple in the neighborhood moving out and is determined to make the next couple welcome. They will avoid her at all costs.

 

Dr. Ruin formally applied to The Guild of Calamitous Intent, but they ranked him a One. He’s in the process of finding a hacker to target his old university. He plans on wiping out their student loan records and naming the Dean of Science there his nemesis.

 

Night Marionette choked on an incontinence pill the day before Damona released what would be called “The Devil’s Muff” fungus.

 

The Monarch isn’t too put out about having to move back into the cocoon, but he promised his wife that he’d fix up his parents’ old home for them to live in. He’ll later use this as an excuse to burn a giant butterfly into the Venture Compound lawn.

 

Most of the residents of Malice relocated. A few used the opportunity to move into bigger houses. They think the deserted, barren neighborhood covered in creeping fungus is more befitting of supervillains anyway.

 

 

 

The Ventures are now preparing for a trip to space to visit Uncle J.J…


End file.
